


A Difficult Relationship

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consensual, Drug Use, Kidlock, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Slash, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have what you might call... a difficult relationship." The long and winding road to Holmescest, and beyond. </p><p>
  <i>Mycroft wanders on the edge of sleep, the pleasant twilight of the mind when all things seem possible. His room is still and calm; there’s only the low, steady tick of the clock and the occasional shift and snap from the banked fire in its grate. He lies on his left side, one hand under the pillow, the other lightly resting on the crotch of his pyjama bottoms. He thinks of school, his mind’s eye summoning up the invisible threads of friendship, competitiveness and hatred that join his fellow eighth-grade students and himself in a tangled web. A snip here, a twist there, and with a little time and encouragement he hopes he might yet shape the threads according to his will.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1983

**Author's Note:**

> Another episodic fic - no guarantees it'll ever be finished, but each chapter will be stand-alone. Nothing explicit in this chapter, but a general warning that all roads lead to Holmescest :)

Mycroft wanders on the edge of sleep, the pleasant twilight of the mind when all things seem possible. His room is still and calm; there’s only the low, steady tick of the clock and the occasional shift and snap from the banked fire in its grate. He lies on his left side, one hand under the pillow, the other lightly resting on the crotch of his pyjama bottoms. He thinks of school, his mind’s eye summoning up the invisible threads of friendship, competitiveness and hatred that join his fellow eighth-grade students and himself in a tangled web. A snip here, a twist there, and with a little time and encouragement he hopes he might yet shape the threads according to his will.

This year there’s one new boy in particular he desires, Nicholas, with his shock of dark hair and glittering grey eyes, tall and broad for his age. To win his attention Mycroft will need to separate him from his current group of blithering, red-faced friends, like a weak impala from its herd. It won’t be easy – still cursed with the plump cheeks of childhood, Mycroft has neither the looks nor the manner that might be typically useful in this situation. He acknowledges this without self-pity or regret, only as an obstacle to be overcome. To his benefit, however, there has been quite a lot of History homework this term, and Nicholas has already been pulled up twice for falling behind on prep. Mycroft is very good at History.

Contemplating the possibilities, he rubs the tip of his thumb over the bulge in his pyjamas. He doesn’t know quite what he wants with Nicholas; right now he’s all knowledge and no experience. He thinks only that he would like to have him alone, in private, so that he might sit as close as he dared, and perhaps brush Nicholas’ hand now and again while explaining the consequences of British rule in India. If that went well, later he might go further, might trace the contours of his face with trembling fingers, might even kiss him on the mouth, the way people do on television.

Mycroft’s breath quickens as he strokes himself lightly, imagining the press of Nicholas’s lips, the earthy, foreign smell of him. With his eyes closed, he dares to imagine Nicholas’s hand moving on him, just as his own is now. Strong fingers encircling him as they lie pressed together, skin to skin, the tedium of schoolwork forgotten. He’s entered the realm of pure fantasy now, uncharted territory, but he lets out a sigh of pleasure as his cock swells under his hand. The clarity of his mind’s eye begins to blur at the edges as sensation takes hold, and he works his hand faster under the covers. Ah, Nicholas…

“Mycroft?”

He freezes in shock, his breath catching in his throat. But it’s only Sherlock, of course, having silently worked the doorknob and crept into the room on bare feet. Either of his parents would have had the decency to knock.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Sherlock’s eyes gleam in the darkness, narrowing. “Are you all right? What were you doing?”

“Dreaming,” Mycroft says, the half-truth carefully crafted to withstand Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“Was it a bad dream?”

“Not at all. Quite nice, in fact.” At least it might have been, if only he’d been allowed to finish it.

“What was it about?”

“You know, I can’t quite remember now. Something about school.”

“That can’t have been a very nice dream at all. _I’d_ rather be awake.”

Mycroft sighs. Very soon he’s going to have to bar Sherlock from his room altogether, but he hasn’t entirely forgotten what it’s like to be seven years old.

“Come on, then.” Mycroft flips aside the covers, his erection now well and truly dispelled, and Sherlock wriggles in beside him. He smells of soap and childhood, and some part of Mycroft feels vaguely ashamed. He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s torso, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

“So how _was_ school today?”

“I don’t know, I was reading _Treasure Island_ again.”

“You ought to at least pretend to listen to the teacher, Sherlock. It’s polite.”

The noise Sherlock makes shows his disdain for Mycroft’s ideas of politeness. “She’s boring.”

“Nevertheless.”

“And I’ve been _told_ by everyone a hundred times already. You’re boring, too.”

“Yes. That must be just why you came to visit me.”

Sherlock scowls, his face a pale curve in the half-light. He glances at Mycroft and his expression turns almost plaintive. “Tell me about Edward Low again.”

“Hmm, all right, Edward Low.” Mycroft props himself up on one elbow and gathers his thoughts as Sherlock twists around to face him. “Well, you must remember that he started off as a thief,” he begins, “so piracy was really quite a step up for him.” He strokes Sherlock’s arm absent-mindedly as he warms to his tale. “Even though he was only a pirate for three years, he had the reputation of being one of the most vicious and bloodthirsty around. He liked to torture his victims before killing them, and even his own men were frightened of him. Imagine him, then, rampaging the seas, creating his own personal reign of terror. And then one day he just, puff, disappeared, along with his ship, the _Fancy_. No one knows for sure what happened to him – some people think he and his ship went down in a storm, others that he was hanged, but some say he went to live in Brazil and died of old age. Which of those fates do you like best?”

But there’s no answer, only the slow, steady rush of Sherlock’s breath and Mycroft mouth curves, just a little. As a younger brother Sherlock has often proven inconvenient, irrational, and deeply annoying, but in a strange way he belongs to Mycroft the way no one else ever has, or likely ever will. He drops a soft kiss on the top of Sherlock’s hair, and turns to lie on his back, slightly squashed up between Sherlock and the wall. He doesn’t mind.

As he falls asleep he allows his thoughts to return briefly to his plans for Nicholas, but in the end his dreams are filled with the clink of swords, the screams of men, and the flapping of sails in the breeze.


	2. 1990

In the years Mycroft is away at university, he sees Sherlock growing up in fragments of shared time, a series of snapshots. Upon each return home, Sherlock is taller, thinner, his face slowly losing the cast of childhood. His enthusiasm for Mycroft’s visits seems to diminish proportionately. As time passes, hugs become dignified greetings, then degenerate into curt nods followed by silence.

By the time Mycroft graduates, he feels that Sherlock only really exists in his peripheral vision, like a skulking cat. It’s not exactly as though Sherlock’s avoiding him; on the contrary, he always seems to be around one way or the other – reading a book, strolling casually past from one room to the next, sitting across the table picking his way through dinner. But when Mycroft speaks to him, he responds in monosyllables and ducks away, circling back only when Mycroft has given up all hope of conversation. Mummy thinks it’s just a phase, even though Mycroft was perfectly civil at Sherlock’s age, at least by his own estimation.

“So it’s not just a job, but a flat as well,” Mycroft says at dinner, scooping peas onto his plate. “At least for now. The perks of the civil service.”

“Never heard of anyone getting an offer like that straight out of university,” Daddy says placidly, his main focus on his plate. “They sound very keen.”

“As they should be.” Mummy is smiling across at him, but her eyes are as sharp as ever. “Someone’s got to fix this country, and for god’s sake, Mikey, do make them do something about the IRA. I’m not sure I even like the idea of you living in London these days. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine. And it’s only a clerkship, Mummy. They’ll probably have me doing photocopying and buying lunches.”

“Yes, that sounds ever so likely, especially since they’ve offered you a _flat_. Exactly how stupid do you think I am, darling?”

Mycroft wisely chooses not to answer the question, and praises her roast chicken instead, which proves an effective distraction. They talk for a while about the relative merits of thyme and onion stuffing versus sage and bacon – a travesty, they agree – while Daddy chews and Sherlock pushes small forkfuls into his mouth, pausing after each bite as though deciding whether he really needs to bother with the next one.

“Sherlock, have some more potatoes.” Mummy puts two more on his half-finished plate without asking, as though he were four and not fourteen. “You like those.”

Sherlock’s expression suggests otherwise, but even he doesn’t dare snap at Mummy over potatoes. He really has grown quite thin, as though somehow making up for Mycroft’s increasing plumpness. The thought makes Mycroft set down his fork in a burst of self-consciousness. He wipes his mouth with his napkin before picking it up again, resolving to pay more attention to his diet from now on.

When he lifts his head, he sees Sherlock’s mouth curving at the corners, and there’s a hint of gleeful malice in his eyes before his expression fades back to solemnity. It’s clear he still has something of a knack for deducing Mycroft’s thoughts. Mycroft takes another bite and chews with determination, resentful yet amused. He’s never had many friends – not _real_ ones, anyway – but in a way, Sherlock has always made up for it. When he was younger, at least, young enough to trail after Mycroft with his unending questions and uncritical admiration, and even later, when he became old enough to know better. Sherlock’s one of the few people who sees Mycroft for who he is, and not for what he can do – which is both a blessing and a curse. Some quiet part of Mycroft misses him.

“Perhaps Sherlock might even like to come up to London for a bit,” Mycroft says to Mummy, enjoying the startled jerk of Sherlock’s head up from his plate. They exchange glances across the table. _Really? Yes, if you like._ The way things have been between them, it feels like the most heartfelt discussion they’ve had in weeks. “While I settle in.”

“I’m sure he’d would appreciate that very much. Wouldn’t you?” Mummy turns her attention from her plate to Sherlock, who shrugs. “Sherlock! That’s hardly a decent response.”

“I was eating!” Sherlock protests, after swallowing dramatically, and this time it’s Mycroft who hides a smile. “You wouldn’t want me to choke to death answering your question, would you?”

Mummy shakes her head, and begins lecturing Sherlock about behaving himself and not getting into trouble until Mycroft finally takes pity and distracts her.

***

Mycroft drives them both up to London in his second-hand Mini, hoping he won’t regret extending the invitation. Despite that brief moment last week at dinner, Sherlock has been no more communicative than before. He spends the entire journey in the passenger seat attached to his Discman while Mycroft listens to Bach on the car’s CD player. The tinny background thumping of Sherlock’s music through the headphones is an irritating accompaniment, but he doesn’t want to turn it into a pitched battle he will probably lose. So much for any hope of conversation.

The flat is small but not too shabby, one of an entire block owned by the civil service to house its lesser employees. At least everything is well maintained, something Mycroft appreciates even at the age of twenty-one. The carpet is a dark, stain-resistant blue, the furniture beige, and the ceiling appallingly textured, as though someone has vomited upon it and then had it painted over. It will do for now. Mycroft switches on the light as Sherlock drags in a sports bag filled with clothing, depositing it with a thump in the middle of the living room.

“It’s not a sofa bed, I’m afraid,” Mycroft says. “I wasn’t exactly planning on having guests. We’ll go and buy you a fold-out to sleep on tomorrow.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, but it’s obvious to both of them that the fading two-seater sofa isn’t nearly long or wide enough for comfort, and the upright armrests won’t allow for much wiggle room.

Mycroft hesitates. There’s always the floor, of course, but it does seem selfish to consign Sherlock there when there’s a perfectly spacious double bed that will fit both of them easily. It’s just that making the offer feels impossibly awkward. For a moment, Mycroft even considers taking the floor himself.

“Or you could share with me,” he says. “Just for one night.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, in exactly the same tone. He glances at Mycroft, flashing him the hint of a smile. “It’s good to get out of Sussex.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mycroft says. “Now, what shall we do for dinner?”

They go to a nondescript Italian bistro with checked tablecloths and dusty pictures of Tuscany bedecking its walls. The waiter throws them an odd look as he sets down the menus, and Mycroft realises what an unlikely pair they must seem, a surly adolescent Sherlock in T-shirt, jeans and jacket, sitting slouched across from Mycroft in his pressed shirt and trousers. They’re clearly not friends, and to the untrained eye too different in age and demeanour to make convincing siblings. Mycroft probably looks like a friend of Sherlock’s parents, or a terribly young uncle.

Sherlock smirks when Mycroft orders a salad, but Mycroft lets it pass. He’s hoping that now he’ll finally have a chance to pin down Sherlock long enough to talk to him a little bit, find out what’s been happening in his life. The memory of his own adolescence is fresh enough for Mycroft to understand at least something of how difficult it is, must still be, for Sherlock. He doesn’t want to come over as bossy or interfering, but he can’t bear for Sherlock to drift away from him completely.

They do talk, but every time Mycroft brings up the subject of school or family, Sherlock develops a sudden interest in speculating about Thatcher’s future in parliament, the likely dangers from the IRA, or the British space program. Mycroft knows exactly what he’s doing, but allows himself to be diverted, since there’s no point in getting into an argument straight off the bat. They almost end up in one anyway, after one too many mentions of “political fat cats”. Mycroft rolls his eyes and continues eating his salad.

Only later that night, with the lights off and the quilts pulled up snugly over them both, does Sherlock finally relent.

“I hate it,” he says.

“Hmm?” Mycroft turns towards him in surprise. The civil service’s idea of soft furnishings does not extend to blackout blinds, so Sherlock’s face is a pale oval in the half-light. He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling as though attempting to find patterns in its lumpy surface. Strange to have him there after so many years, no longer a small boy in flannel pyjamas, but a half-grown man in T-shirt and shorts.

“School. It just used to be boring. Now it’s boring and hateful.”

“In what way?” When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Mycroft pushes a little harder. “Is anyone treating you… badly?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says, which means that it matters very much.

Now that Mycroft has his answer, he wishes with all his heart he hadn’t. Mycroft hadn’t exactly enjoyed school himself, but it had been a very useful training ground for office politics. There was no battlefield more desperate or dangerous than newly post-pubescent boys fighting for dominance. Mycroft had survived by picking out the handful of boys who really mattered, and making himself just valuable enough to each of them to avoid becoming a target. Let their stocks rise and fall in public view, while Mycroft stayed in the shadows to congratulate the victor.

Sherlock has never learned the art of diplomacy. His nature is too direct, too impatient, for its subtleties.

“It will pass,” Mycroft says. Short of contacting the school himself – an excellent way of ensuring Sherlock never speaks to him again – there’s little he can do. “In a few years’ time, you’ll all go your separate ways, and you’ll never have to see any of them again.”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock says. “It’s just that sometimes I almost wish…”

“What?”

“That I was stupid. I know you _already_ think I’m stupid, but I mean _really_ stupid. Ordinary. Just like everyone else. Then I’d fit in, or at least I wouldn’t know any better.” His voice rings with a terrifying sincerity.

“Sherlock, please.” Mycroft reaches an instinctive hand to him, under the covers. “I only said that the once, and in my defence, I was only a child myself. And don’t ever wish that. You’ll find your own place in the world when you grow up, but in the meantime, you have to make sure you get there in one piece.”

Sherlock’s fingers are surprisingly cool, and they twitch fretfully in Mycroft’s grasp. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says.

“All right.”

Mycroft flips back onto his back, still holding Sherlock’s hand loosely in his. He shuts his eyes, and they lie there for a while in silence, with Sherlock’s breathing soft and slow beside him.

“I’m sorry about Edward,” Sherlock says out of nowhere, returning Mycroft instantly to full wakefulness. He’d already had a rather clipped discussion with Mummy on the subject of why-that-nice-young-man-wouldn’t-be-coming-to-visit-any-more, of course, but he hadn’t really thought Sherlock would care enough to notice.

“You needn’t be. He always did come with an expiry date.” Namely, successfully graduating with a First. While Edward had likely been bright enough to do it on his own, Mycroft had proven to be a useful resource, and the mutual blow jobs had been excellent stress relief into the bargain. Mycroft had never had illusions about their relationship, not really, but he can’t quite keep the edge from his tone.

“That just proves he was stupid,” Sherlock says. Mycroft smiles at him, pleased at Sherlock’s loyalty, the echoes of his childhood self. Sherlock turns towards him, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Was there… ever anyone else? When you were in school?”

“Well, there was Nicholas, I suppose,” Mycroft says, and what a disaster that had been. Tall, beautiful Nicholas, who had been thrillingly educational for a while, but when that had worn off, Mycroft found that they had very little in common. Nicholas, on the other hand, had taken an odd fancy to Mycroft, and not just because he was getting decent marks in History for a change. Mycroft couldn’t quite understand it, except that they had been each other’s “first”, and maybe that meant something more to to Nicholas than it did to him. In the end, Mycroft had engineered a little strategic infidelity – on Nicholas’ part, not his own – that enabled him to put a stop to it. It had been more difficult and dramatic than he’d anticipated, but it had worked.

One thing that had surprised him, though, was how furious Nicholas had been. Even though it was _he_ who had been spotted kissing Peter Forsythe in the park behind the school. After Mycroft had gone through the mechanics of being suitably hurt and upset, Nicholas – sweet, stupid Nicholas, who could barely tell a plant from a Plantagenet – had fixed him with a look and said: “Mycroft. If you were that bored with me, you need only have _said_.” He had stalked off, leaving Mycroft for once at a complete loss for words.

He summarises the events for Sherlock, inviting him to laugh at Mycroft’s expense. Instead, Sherlock listens solemnly, asking the occasional question.

“At least he was smarter than the other one,” Sherlock concludes, to Mycroft’s amusement. He doesn’t quite understand why Sherlock would be so interested in his romantic travails, and then it strikes him.

“Sherlock… is there perhaps _someone_?” He leaves the specifics tactfully unspoken. “At school?”

“No,” Sherlock says, too quickly, and then, “Well, not _really_.”

Mycroft tries not to smile. Their hands have slipped apart during the conversation, and he reaches for Sherlock’s again in a show of support, but Sherlock shakes him off instantly.

“Sorry,” Mycroft says. “Do you want to talk about it? Her?”

“Him,” Sherlock says, which takes Mycroft a little by surprise. He’d never given much thought to Sherlock’s tendencies, had perhaps taken for granted he’d eventually fill the dashing romantic role his looks and manner were already promising him. Perhaps it was Mycroft who hadn’t been paying enough attention.

“All right, then. Someone in your year?”

“No. He’s a bit older. And he doesn’t really know I exist. Not in that way, anyway.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Not a teacher.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Hardly.”

“Well, perhaps it would be better if you would consider someone closer to your own age.”

“You always said age was an irrelevancy. As long as you knew your own mind.”

“Yes, in terms of your ability, but not in other people’s regard. Even three or four years is a big difference at your age. Maybe you’ll just have to be patient, a concept I realise is alien to you. But you don’t have much choice.”

“Well, you’re a great fat lot of use. Literally.”

Mycroft is primarily a diplomatic creature of words and thought. But even he acknowledges that there are times when physical violence is necessary. Under the covers he reaches out to poke Sherlock in the side, then tickles him. Sherlock’s retaliation is, as always, swift and employing excessive force. In the resulting melee, the duvets end up on the floor, and Sherlock ends up on top of Mycroft, pinning him by his forearms. They’re both panting, Mycroft smiling slightly, but Sherlock is looking at him with the deadly seriousness with which he might regard an assailant. It’s slightly alarming.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, still catching his breath, and then his face looms closer, his lips pressing against Mycroft’s in a determined movement. Mycroft freezes, disbelieving, as all Sherlock’s vague allusions crystallise into stark reality. _Oh, god._ Better that Sherlock really _had_ been pining over one of his teachers.

Sherlock pulls back, studying him. The mask of sullenness is gone; he’s as uncertain as Mycroft has ever seen him, and Mycroft feels little better. Some innately conservative, three-piece suit part of him is horrified, imaging the consequences if anyone were to ever learn what Sherlock had just done. The rest is concerned only with Sherlock. There’s much that Mycroft could say, but he remembers well the fragile flutterings of adolescence, and knows he has to be careful. _Tread softly because you tread on my dreams._

Still, it has to be done. Sherlock’s grip has loosened, and Mycroft frees himself to place a hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, pushing him off gently. Sherlock’s gaze never leaves his own.

“I’m… flattered,” he says softly. Sherlock is only a child, for all his height and intelligence, and he has to remember that. He brings his hand to cover Sherlock’s, stroking it. “By your interest. But you know it’s impossible, Sherlock. You know it.”

Sherlock snatches his hand away, then tilts his chin up, defiant. “Why? It doesn’t have to _mean_ anything. I could just suck you off, if you like.”

Mycroft keeps his expression carefully neutral, but it takes considerable effort to conceal his shock. What scares him most, however, is that for a moment he glimpses the lush promise of Sherlock’s mouth and is tempted. His cock twitches involuntarily at the thought. Rational thought and morality reassert themselves immediately, of course, but too late to prevent the speculative flicker in Sherlock’s eyes. The memory will haunt Mycroft in months to come.

“I hardly need to spell out all the reasons why,” Mycroft says.

“Because you don’t care for me.”

“I care for you too much to let you debase yourself like that. You’re not only my brother, Sherlock, you’re a child. How could you even _think_ of…”

“ _You_ did. At my age.”

“That was entirely different.”

Sherlock’s face contorts in anger, making him look younger than ever. “It’s really not. You’re a hypocrite, and you needn’t flatter yourself. You’re fat and you’re hideous, and I _hate_ you.”

He wrenches himself away, but Mycroft catches hard at his arm, determined to stop him from fleeing. He’s prepared to leave bruises if that’s what it takes.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he says. It’s easy for Mycroft to accept the blame as his due – he already understands that in some indefinable way, he’s responsible. “Please, stay here with me, at least. Just for tonight.” He needs to show Sherlock that he’s still important to him, no matter what. However, he already knows he’ll sleep badly for the rest of Sherlock’s visit.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but some of the tension eases from his muscles. As Mycroft finally lets him go, he thumps his head onto the pillow, curling into a shivering ball. The duvets are still on the floor, and it’s Mycroft who gets up to throw the covers back onto the bed, over Sherlock. He crawls back under them reluctantly, and does his best to sleep, aware of the meagre foot of space between them. When he wakes in the early hours, Sherlock has already slipped away.


	3. 1997

Even before he picks up the phone, Mycroft knows it’s something to do with Sherlock.

It’s not a difficult deduction. Any call regarding work would have come through on his mobile instead. Outside of work, only six people know his home phone number, and of those, only his immediate family would expect him to be here at 10am on a Friday morning rather than at the office. And since the _reason_ he’s not at work today is...

“Is he there?” his mother demands, sharp and breathless.

“Good morning, Mummy,” Mycroft replies, carefully neutral. “You’re referring to Sherlock, I presume.”

“No, to the gardener.” Sarcasm drips from her tone.

“I’m afraid that neither of them are here with me, I assure you.” Mycroft rifles through his mental filing cabinet for the train timetable. “So, when exactly did he go missing? You must have noticed at least an hour and a half ago if you expect him to have come up to London.” He pauses expectantly, but his mother has never given credit for the patently obvious.

“He _said_ he would go through with it. He promised!”

“There’s plenty of time yet. I wasn’t even going to leave for another hour. He’s probably just gone out for a walk.”

“His backpack is gone. Along with his wallet and keys.” Mycroft can almost see the grim set of her expression. "And of course he's not answering his phone, but then he never does."

“What about his robes?”

“They’re still laid out on his bed. “

“All right,” Mycroft says. He knows better than to say, _Calm down, Mummy,_ although he wants to. Sherlock is twenty-one years old, an adult in every sense of the word, and if he wants to skive off his own degree ceremony, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him. “I’m sure he’ll be back in time. I’ll let you know if he shows up.”

He expects his mother to say something like, _You had better_ , but instead her tone is uncharacteristically hesitant. “Mycroft… you do think he’ll be all right, don’t you?”

It’s not immediately clear whether she’s talking about today, or Sherlock’s entire future. Mycroft decides it’s best to stick with the concerns of the present. “Why wouldn’t he be? It’s not the first time he’s gone off, by any means.”

“No, but he’s usually more… I’ve always thought, you know, I can usually tell when he’s going to disappear for a bit. Instinct, I suppose. But today he seemed perfectly normal. For him, anyway.”

 _It’s really not my problem_ , Mycroft tells himself, but it works as well as it always has, which is to say, not at all. He’s not a naturally demonstrative person, but he’s done his best over the years to make up for that terrible night, for his rejection of Sherlock’s advances. To show Sherlock that there might be some things he won’t do, but that he still _cares_. If anything, he’s overcompensated, taken on too many of Sherlock’s troubles as his own.

“He’ll be fine,” he says, but a part of him is already calculating, weighing up where Sherlock could be. His disappearance isn’t surprising, on the face of it – the ceremonies associated with officially graduating from university could have been designed to be everything Sherlock despises. Academic dress, speeches, the Latinate conferring of degrees, formal photographs. But Mummy has insisted, and Sherlock has agreed, and Mycroft has inevitably been roped into witnessing the proceedings. The most annoying thing, of course, is that if he’d _known_ Sherlock wasn’t going to go through with it, he wouldn’t have taken the day off work.

Mummy sighs, and Mycroft knows exactly how she feels. “All right. You’ll let me know if you hear from him.”

“Of course.”

He sets the phone down and returns to studying his own private collection of folders – some stacked in a neat pile, some spread out across the table. From Mycroft’s little corner of the civil service it’s taken him years to trace the inner workings of the British government, its vast network of threads a thousand times more complex than the childish training grounds of school and university. The principles, however, remain the same. Much like vice-chancellors and headmasters, the Prime Minister and Cabinet are but figureheads for public show – men and women kept so busy giving speeches and issuing apologies for entertaining misdeeds that they have no time for _running the country_. Like parasites, they are entirely dependent on their advisers, who feed them the facts and figures they spout so confidently at press conferences, like idiot savants. Mycroft has learned that the ability to improvise from a basis of ignorance represents the career politician’s true talent.

Those who hold the true reins of power – who lay down exactly what _advice_ is to be taken, and when – are known only to those prepared to look far deeper. These shadowy figures remain surprisingly constant, rarely changing even as one government is voted out and another takes its place. Some hold obscure positions in the civil service, but others are businessmen, or nobility, wealthy beyond the reach of a single nation. Mycroft calls them the Committee. Over the years, Mycroft has identified them one by one, building dossiers on each in his spare time, looking for a way in. He’s almost ready. The bulkiest file contains everything he knows about Lord Caldwell (David) – 58 years old, married, two children, with a modest net worth of around £500m and interests in media, mining, and the turf. He also has a weakness for attractive and discreet young men. There are definite possibilities there, but it pays to keep tabs on them all.

He continues updating his files with new information, paying particular attention to Caldwell’s, but some part of him continues to ponder Sherlock’s likely whereabouts, and quickly reaches accord with Mummy. An internal timer has already begun counting down the minutes. At any moment now he expects the buzzer to sound, signalling a visitor downstairs at the entrance to the apartment block, but instead it’s the sound of a key in the door that disturbs him. Mycroft puts down his pen and approaches with caution, but it’s only Sherlock, as anticipated, looking a little too pleased with himself.

“Exactly how did you come by that key, Sherlock?” Mycroft says, in lieu of a greeting. He holds out a hand for it, tilts his head.

Sherlock ignores him, and strides into the living room, trailing a breath of cold November air. He drops his backpack on the floor before glancing around the room, taking in the plump sofas, Tiffany-style lamps, the sweeping view over tiled rooftops. “You’re doing well for yourself,” he says, flinging his coat over the nearest chair and himself onto the nearest double-seater sofa. Mycroft has never invited him to the new apartment, not after that last disastrous visit, but Sherlock has obviously combined his theft and copying of Mycroft’s key with a productive trawl through Mummy’s address book.

“So, were there train delays, or did you simply have trouble finding the place?” Mycroft asks, reaching down to push Sherlock’s shoes off the armrest before they scuff the leather. Sherlock ignores that question as well, but frowns at Mycroft’s lack of surprise. They exchange a single meaningful glance.

“She phoned you,” Sherlock says flatly, and Mycroft nods. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not _twelve_. Perhaps you could both try remembering that for a change.”

The sight of Sherlock sprawled insolently on his settee does more to remind Mycroft of this fact than any protest ever could. There’s now only an inch’s difference in height between them, and Sherlock’s adolescent gangliness has somehow metamorphosed into a feline grace. He’s still too thin, but it only serves to accentuate the sharp planes of his face, the curls he’s defiantly grown out after the schoolyard crop. Even in a crisp white shirt and dress pants, Sherlock reminds Mycroft of something out of a Renaissance painting – and just as remote. By now the thoughts are so familiar that Mycroft only registers them in passing, as a pang of habitual longing.

“What?” Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing at some tell-tale flicker in Mycroft’s expression. Mycroft shakes his head and scowls automatically in response.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Besides ruining my décor.”

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly. I’m doing wonders for the place. Livening it up a bit. Honestly, when was the last time you had _anyone_ over here?”

It’s an unsettling observation, and Mycroft can’t quite tell if it’s a deduction or a shot in the dark. In the four years since he moved in, it isn’t as though he’s lived like a monk, exactly, but he’s always preferred going to anyone else’s place but his own. Easier to leave, for one thing. Not to mention that he’s been… busy, and relationships of any kind take time. And effort. Still, he’s had people around, occasionally. Just not very many of them. He suddenly realises it’s been well over a year since that post-concert “coffee” with James, a night that had ended remarkably badly.

“None of your business,” he snaps. “Right now the matter at hand is today’s big event, and your attendance thereof. Are you still intending to go?”

“You know that they’ll award me my degree whether I turn up at the ceremony or not.”

“Yes, but you promised Mummy, and anyway, that’s not the point. It’s symbolic.”

“Of what? The tedium of existence?”

Mycroft shrugs. “The end of one phase and the beginning of the next.” He still isn’t entirely sure whether Sherlock’s visit bodes some last-ditch act of rebellion, but, he reminds himself, _not his problem._ “I’ll just phone Mummy and let her know you’ve shown up. I’m sure she would love to speak with you.” The telephone sits on a shelf above the dining table, and he moves towards it.

“Don’t.” Sherlock springs from the sofa and catches hold of Mycroft’s arm. “I told you, I’m not a child anymore.”

Mycroft turns back, startled. He’d thought, somehow, that over the course of Sherlock’s teenage years the ground rules had been gradually established and mutually understood. They do not _touch_. A handshake in company if absolute necessary, but nothing more. Otherwise, a civil conversation – and remarkably, most of them are, nowadays – is quite enough. He pulls away, but Sherlock doesn’t let go. Nervous energy radiates from him, and Mycroft’s pulse quickens in automatic response.

“Sherlock…” Anything he might have wanted to say abruptly vanishes in the heat of Sherlock’s expression. He notes, distantly, the sharp flicker of Sherlock’s eyes over his face, and then Sherlock is kissing him, and, god help him, Mycroft is kissing him back. It happens without any conscious decision on his part, and the softness of Sherlock’s mouth allows no room for morality, or conscience. It’s all Mycroft can do to breathe, let alone think, and one of his hands reflexively tangles itself in Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock presses up against him.

When his head begins to clear, he suddenly realises that Sherlock is hard against his thigh, his hands clutching at Mycroft’s back, and Mycroft wants both of to just stay that way, because in one more moment he’s going to have to contemplate exactly what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want to do that. Not now, not ever. So he closes his eyes and holds it off as long as he can. It’s only when Sherlock’s fingers fumble at the button of his trousers that he finds the strength to take hold of Sherlock’s wrist, pushing it firmly away. They both freeze, and for long seconds he can only draw long, gasping shudders of breath, his cheek pressed against the side Sherlock’s face.

“We can’t,” he says at last.

“Why?”

When Mycroft hesitates in the face of the sheer magnitude of reasons that spring to mind, Sherlock huffs out an exasperated breath and shakes off his restraining hand. This time Sherlock’s fingers begin insistently, obscenely caressing him, making it impossible to concentrate.

“For god’s sake, stop it!” Finding new strength in desperation, Mycroft finally steps back, pushes Sherlock away. “Sherlock, I’m sorry… I never wanted to…”

“Yes, you did.” Fury only heightens the flush in Sherlock’s cheeks, and Mycroft can barely look at him. “You want it just as much as I do. You always have.”

Mycroft can hardly argue, not with his head spinning and his erection still pushing against the front of his trousers. But surely even Sherlock understands that it’s _wrong_ , that there are some acts that are simply unthinkable, unforgiveable.

“That’s not the point…” he begins, but he sounds feeble even to himself.

“It’s exactly the point. For years now, I’ve done everything you wanted. Everything.” Sherlock spits the words like obscenities. “I _stayed at school_. I _kept out of trouble._ I even got into a _good university_. All of it. I thought you’d be proud of me. I just wanted to show you that I could…” Sherlock’s voice catches, and his lips press tightly together before he shakes his head and continues. “That I could do it. That I could _pretend_ just as well as you could.”

Mycroft frowns, remembering the undeniable improvement in Sherlock’s behaviour throughout his teens. “I thought that was because Mummy said…”

“What do I care what she wanted? It was for you.”

The thought of Sherlock’s misguided efforts threatens to crush Mycroft under its weight. He staggers back towards the settee and sits down, holding his head in his hands. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

“And I did it, didn’t I?” Sherlock continues, softer now. Mycroft feels the sofa cushions shift as Sherlock sits down beside him. “Mycroft? Today… I thought you’d see that. You’d realise it would be all right, that I could do all the right things, and then we could do what we wanted, and no one would ever find out.”

“I thought you’d _changed_ ,” Mycroft says. “That you’d grown out of your… whatever it was.”

“Why should I? You didn’t.”

“But that’s because… oh, god. No. I am not having this conversation.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, and a moment later he’s pulling Mycroft towards him and then Sherlock’s mouth is on his again, and Mycroft is helpless to do a thing about it.

This time Sherlock’s kisses are slow and sweet, as though he senses Mycroft’s capitulation and wants to draw it out to the fullest. Mycroft is passive, pliant, letting Sherlock cup his face between his hands, parting his lips to the press of Sherlock’s tongue. In Mycroft’s relationships he’s always been the one in control, regardless of appearances, but in the face of Sherlock’s desire he can only follow.

Still, when Sherlock once again reaches for the button of Mycroft’s trousers, he gently guides Sherlock’s hands back to his own instead. Sherlock’s dress trousers are baggy on his thin frame, and when he’s undone his button and zip he moves up and over to straddle Mycroft, the weight of him now pressing down on Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft gasps softly as Sherlock begins to rock against him, each movement sparking a jolt of pleasure that pins him helplessly to the sofa. Sherlock begins stroking himself , his hand brushing against the front of Mycroft’s shirt with every movement. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open.

“Touch me,” Sherlock says, reaching out for him, but Mycroft balks and once again guides Sherlock’s hand back to himself. There’s a moment, though, when the edges of his fingers brush against the silken heat of Sherlock’s cock, and he shivers. If only…

“What would you do?” Sherlock says suddenly, as though reading his thoughts. He’s still rutting slowly against Mycroft in a way that threatens to undo him. “If I were someone else... If I weren’t, oh, if I weren’t your _baby brother_.”

The words are like a slap to the face, but it’s no more than he deserves. Mycroft barely flinches. He lifts his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes, which are alight with something that resembles determination more than desire.

“What do you think?” he says, feeling every pulse of blood in his own aching cock. “Anything. Everything.”

“You could fuck me,” Sherlock suggests. “I’m not a virgin any more, you know.”

 _Oh, god._ Mycroft doesn’t want to think about it, but images crowd his mind regardless. He can only shake his head numbly.

“But that night – you wanted me. You do… want me.” Sherlock’s voice is rough, insistent. As though there could be any possible remaining doubt on the matter. But there’s still the hint of uncertainty in his eyes, and Mycroft pulls him close and kisses him.

“How could I not?”

Sherlock stares at him a moment longer, and then his eyes flutter closed as his hand begins moving faster on his own cock. His head arches back, and Mycroft lays small, soft kisses along the curve of his neck, his jaw.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s free hand clutches blindly at his forearm for support as he grinds himself harder against Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft struggles to hold still as Sherlock’s movements become increasingly frantic, erratic. Then Sherlock stills and shudders, whimpering breathless cries from the back of his throat as he comes hard over his own hand and Mycroft’s sweat-soaked shirt. The smell of him is sharp and wrong and so intoxicating that Mycroft wants only to draw Sherlock to him, to bury his face in his neck forever.

As Sherlock slumps into his embrace, for one insane moment Mycroft thinks: _he could have this_. He could keep Sherlock with him, here, hidden away in his flat, and then they could do exactly as they pleased and no one would ever know. The sheer absurdity of the idea shocks him back to reality. _The degree ceremony. There’s still time. Sherlock will have to change his clothes. We both will._

“Now you,” Sherlock says. His eyes are still soft, slightly dazed.

Mycroft shakes his head. It’s all right now. The worst of the madness has passed and he can see all too clearly what must be done. It is, after all, his gift. “Go take a shower. You have to get back.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. He sees the effect first in Sherlock’s eyes, then in the tightening of his mouth.

“Through there, on the left,” Mycroft adds. He’s tense, expectant, but Sherlock only unwinds himself from Mycroft with great dignity, doing up his trousers again, and follows the tilt of Mycroft’s head towards the hallway. After the bathroom door closes, there’s a long silence, and then the soft rumble of pipes as the shower is turned on.

Mycroft exhales a long, exhausted breath and slumps backwards into the cushions. He’s still hard, but that doesn’t matter. He can ignore it well enough. What he can’t ignore is the sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about what he’s just done. Or almost done. The distinction is meaningless as far as his own culpability goes, his own desires. He realises now that he’d been wrong in reaching out to Sherlock again after that disastrous teenage encounter. He’d thought he was only showing Sherlock the love and acceptance he needed, when it would have been far kinder to have been standoffish and distant to drive the message home. Mycroft’s own weakness has led him down the wrong path.

When Sherlock returns carrying his rumpled clothes and polished shoes, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, Mycroft is prepared. “There’s not much time,” he says, and indicates the small pile of clothes he’s retrieved from his bedroom. “Nothing I have will fit you properly, so you’ll have to go home and get changed first. You can say you spilled coffee on yourself – leave your clothes here, and I’ll deal with them.”

Sherlock shrugs and sets his bundle on the floor, but ignores the folded clothing and instead rummages in his backpack, from which he produces fresh underwear and another set of shirt and pants, near-identical to the first. They’ve been packed carefully – despite being jostled around in the bag, they look freshly pressed. Mycroft eyes them, and then Sherlock, with a kind of fascinated horror.

“You… planned this,” he says, unable to process the sheer extent of Sherlock’s wilfulness. “Today.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock has the grace to look defiant rather than merely smug. “Allowed for it, anyway. I thought you’d understand that we’d both waited long enough.”

“It was never about _waiting_ , Sherlock!”

Sherlock undoes the towel and lets it fall to the ground, and Mycroft instinctively looks away. From the corner of his eye he’s aware of Sherlock pulling on his clothes without any sign of modesty. “What else, then?” Sherlock says, fastening the button of his trousers.

“This was never meant to happen. Ever. Surely you understand that.”

“But you _said_ you wanted…”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s cheeks burn at the memory. “And I was wrong to say it.”

Sherlock fastens his cuffs, but leaves the top button of his shirt undone. Only minutes ago, Mycroft had been kissing him there, and there, and _there_. He can’t afford to think of that now.

“So, what _are_ you trying to say, Mycroft?” Sherlock folds his arms and glowers, a barefoot avenging angel.

“That this will never happen again. You need to understand that. All right? You will finish getting dressed, and go to your graduation, and make Mummy and Daddy very happy. After that, I will do everything in my power to help you in whatever you wish to do with your life, but we can’t… I don’t want to see you again.”

“You can’t do that!” Sherlock advances on him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You can’t just… _decide_ things like that.”

“Well, that’s a pity, because I already have.” Mycroft uses the coldest, haughtiest tone he can manage, given that his shirt and trousers are a rumpled, stained mess that completely undermine his words. He follows up with the patronising calmness he knows Sherlock most despises. “Now, quick, come on, shoes and socks. You only have five minutes if you’re to make the train.”

“And what about you? Hadn’t you best be _hurrying_ , too?”

“No, I’m afraid something urgent has come up at work, and I won’t be going after all.” He makes no attempt at sincerity.

“You…” Sherlock has let go of him, but his mouth works with something between anger and disbelief. “You _coward_.”

Mycroft pushes himself off the sofa, and deliberately brushes past Sherlock as he heads for the bathroom. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Are you going to phone Mummy? What will you tell her?”

“I’ll leave that up to you. You can tell her whatever you like.” Mycroft’s lips curve in a humourless smile. “And I’m sure you will.” He’s already sure that before the day is out Mummy will understand that they’ve had a falling-out, and that it’s _all Mycroft’s fault_. Sherlock will go to his graduation and be the _good_ child, leaving Mycroft to be the irresponsible, obstinate one. Mummy has always had something of a blind spot where Sherlock is concerned. Strange that certain faults should be so easy to see in others and so easy to overlook in oneself.

“This isn’t over,” Sherlock says mutinously, but he’s already pulling on his socks. That’s as good a sign as any that events will play out just as Mycroft predicts.

Upon reaching the sanctuary of the bathroom, Mycroft shuts the door and leans against it gratefully, listening to the sounds coming from the living room and the beating of his own heart. Only when the slam of the door announces Sherlock’s departure does he slowly strip off his clothes and step into the shower. The smell of Sherlock still clings to his skin, and he strokes himself to orgasm under the running water, urgent and ugly, one hand pressed against cool grey tile. His harsh breathing echoes back mockingly from the walls, and his eyes sting and water from the rising steam.


	4. 1997

Over the next week Mummy phones Mycroft twice for the sole purpose of scolding him; first for missing Sherlock’s graduation, and then again to remind him that Sherlock is his _brother_ , and that Mycroft should be more _understanding_ , and that it _upsets her so_ to see her boys at odds with each other. Mycroft closes his eyes in supplication as he listens to the insistent rise and fall of her voice, and murmurs apologies that neither of them find convincing. From Sherlock he hears nothing at all. As a week passes, then another, he occasionally finds himself pulling up Sherlock’s name from the contact list on his phone, but stops himself in time. As November turns into December, Mummy tells him that Sherlock has actually found himself a job – he’s accepted a position as a lab tech for a bioscience firm in Abingdon, Oxfordshire. Mycroft mentally calculates the distance from London – about 60 miles – and heaves a small, private sigh of relief. Everything is fine, after all. Sherlock is fine. He sleeps a little better.

At Christmas, Mummy finally brokers a truce, in the sense that neither of them quite dare make excuses for avoiding the family lunch. And, as Mummy points out more than a little acidly, it’s not like either of them have anywhere better to go. Mycroft braves the shopping hordes to buy a calfskin wallet and a pair of gloves for his parents – gifts aren’t expected, exactly, but it’s traditional – and finds himself stopping before a wooden rack of scarves. He instinctively reaches for a cashmere blend in navy blue, drawn by its colour and texture. He thinks of Sherlock winding it around his neck, covering the smooth, exposed hollow of his throat, and takes it to the register with grim determination.

When Mummy answers the door on Christmas morning, it’s clear that Sherlock has already arrived – coat on the rack, fresh traces on the doormat. Mycroft sets his jaw and clutches his parcels tightly as as he trails Mummy along the hallway to the living room. Daddy is waiting to greet him, wearing his usual “festive” bow tie, drink in hand, and Mycroft hugs him briefly. The room sparkles, the fireplace is lit, and the smell of roasting meat, probably beef, fills the air. Mycroft places his store-wrapped gifts beneath the tree, uncomfortably aware of Sherlock as a presence on the sofa behind him.

“Oh, is that one for me?” Sherlock says, his tone maliciously bright. “Really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Hello, brother mine.” Mycroft straightens up and turns towards him at last. Despite his best efforts, his heart begins to race at the sight of Sherlock. He’s sprawled on the sofa, his legs crossed the ankles, and seems somehow heavier, broader, than Mycroft remembers, as though having reached adulthood within the space of the last two months. His hair is even longer than it was, untouched by a barber’s hands, and his dark curls are a striking contrast to his cheekbones. In the soft light from the fire, he’s exquisite. Mycroft stares for a moment too long, and then looks away.

“I’m afraid Sherlock didn’t think to get you anything,” Mummy says, the twist of her mouth conveying her disapproval. “Still, it’s nice that you’re on speaking terms again.” She looks back and forth between them, frowning slightly. “You might have mentioned it to me earlier.”

“Sorry, Mummy.” Mycroft pours himself a glass from the punchbowl on the sideboard and sips at it gingerly. Mummy disapproves of drunkenness, so it resembles an assemblage of fruit juices far more than rum. He takes a slightly bigger swallow.

“But we are, aren’t we, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, saccharine-sweet. “On speaking terms again.”

Mycroft turns back towards him with a grimace, understanding that he has little choice but to play along. “Yes, of course,” he says. “You know how much I regretted missing your degree ceremony, Sherlock. Work, you understand.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re ever so busy and important now. And how _is_ work?”

In spite of Mycroft’s personal circumstances, his career has in fact been going splendidly. Despite his general disdain for socialising, Mycroft has taken advantage of the inevitable flurry of events accompanying the festive season – in particular a charity function at which he’d known Lord Caldwell would also be in attendance. With his modest but growing reputation within the service, Mycroft had also secured enough of his own contacts to engineer an introduction, and in ten minutes of private conversation had succeeded in displaying both his capacity for analysis, and his discretion. If the speculative look in Caldwell’s eyes might have extended slightly beyond the professional, that’s all to the good. Mycroft has never counted his own physical attractiveness as a dependable asset, but he’s slimmed down considerably in the past few years, and found an excellent tailor. He considers his three bespoke suits – each costing more than the current value of his car – to be an excellent investment.

“Fine,” he says, unwilling, as always, to discuss the extent of his own ambition. “And how’s the… lab?”

“Well-equipped,” Sherlock says, “But with terrible security.” Mycroft doesn’t even want to begin parsing that statement for its implications. “So you can see I didn’t need your _help_ finding something to do after all.”

“I never said you did.”

“It was certainly implied,” Sherlock says. “Anyway, I got it through Victor – you remember I told you about him. From university.”

Mycroft nods. The name isn’t difficult to place; Sherlock has only spoken of eight other boys during his time at university, and only about three of them in a less-than-derogatory manner.

“I’ve been seeing _quite a lot of him_ lately.”

“How lovely,” Mycroft says, seating himself in an armchair with more deliberation than necessary, avoiding Sherlock’s stare.

“Yes, it is. Just so you know.”

“I think Sherlock has done quite all right for himself, don’t you?” Mummy says, perching on the back of the settee and resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Her expression shows she’s aware Sherlock is being deliberately provocative, but doesn’t quite understand how, and Mycroft is not about to enlighten her. “And it’s lovely to have you both back home at last.”

“Yes, it’s so nice to catch up. The last time I saw Mycroft we barely _talked_ at all,” Sherlock says. “And he had to rush off in _such a hurry_ he didn’t even get to _finish_ what he was doing.”

Mycroft sips his wine and smiles tightly, trying not to look at Sherlock or Mummy any more than he can help. Instead, he begins asking Daddy about the garden, the bees. Over the years Daddy has cultivated a particularly dedicated form of absent-mindedness, and even now he seems completely oblivious to the tensions around him as he smiles his gentle smile and talks about his roses. Mycroft envies him.

By the time lunch is over the atmosphere has eased considerably, helped along by the soothing effects of small amounts of alcohol and large quantities of potatoes. Even Sherlock is quite civil, appearing to have scored his points to his satisfaction. Mycroft has tried his best to look suitably chastened, but mostly he’s relieved that at least everything is now clear between them, and perhaps they can return to simply being brothers. However, even if things with Victor clearly aren’t serious – Mycroft has no doubt Sherlock would have brought him along to lunch out of sheer spite if they were – the thought of Sherlock with someone else still makes his hands clench and his stomach twist.

When Mummy finally distributes the small pile of presents, Sherlock appears to weigh Mycroft’s thoughtfully in his hands, even though its contents can hardly represent much of a mystery to him. In Mycroft’s memories of Christmas past, Sherlock has always torn open the paper impatiently, interested only in the contents, and this year the wrapping is even duller than usual: store-brand green and white stripes, bound with red ribbon. But Sherlock unties the ribbon carefully, almost caressing the paper as he pries open the sticky tape.

“Thank you,” he says softly, running the scarf through his fingers before drawing it around his neck.

Mycroft’s mouth is suddenly dry. Before he can stop himself, his hands reach out to adjust the fabric, evening out the fringed ends and gently tightening the slipknot around his brother’s throat.

“Oh, that’s a lovely colour, isn’t it?” Mummy says. “Brings out your eyes.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but graces Mycroft with a small smile, and it’s worth more to Mycroft than anything Sherlock might have thought to buy him.

Mid-afternoon, Mycroft emerges from a trip to the bathroom to find Sherlock leaning against the opposite wall, waiting. He’s still wearing the scarf, even though the house is perfectly warm, and instead of concealing the distraction of his throat it only serves to remind Mycroft of the pale, smooth skin beneath. If Sherlock were _someone else_ , Mycroft might almost take it as an invitation to close the distance between them, to strip Sherlock of his Christmas present, followed by a great deal more besides. But it’s only a passing thought, one that flashes across his mind and is gone. Mycroft is firmly in control.

“You didn’t have to worry,” Sherlock says, straightening up, and Mycroft tenses instinctively, but neither of them move. “I was hardly going to come _back_ , after that…”

Mycroft hasn’t said a word to Mummy about having had the locks on the front door changed, just in case, or about having slept badly for weeks afterwards, still half-expecting to wake and find Sherlock there beside him, in the darkness. Yet Sherlock speaks with certainty, as if he knows exactly what Mycroft has thought, what he’s done. Perhaps Sherlock has read it in his silences.

“You know I only ever wanted what was best for you,“ Mycroft says.

“You mean, for you.”

“For both of us. Don’t do this, Sherlock. Please. I’m just about to head off now, anyway. I think this has all been quite enough for one Christmas, don’t you?”

“You’ll let me call you again, sometimes,” Sherlock says. “Or text you.” His fingers play with the fringe of his scarf, in what would to anyone else would appear to be an careless, absent-minded gesture.

Mycroft hesitates, but only for a moment. Sherlock’s silence has been like an aching tooth. “Of course. And don’t steal too much from work, all right? They’re bound to notice eventually.”

“Unlikely. Too much funding and not enough sense.” Mischief flickers suddenly in Sherlock’s eyes, and Mycroft smiles in spite of himself.

When Mycroft finally manages to take his leave, Mummy loads him down with leftovers in addition to the books and clothes he’s already been given. They all trail him out to the car, where he gives Mummy and Daddy awkward embraces, and promises to keep in touch, as always. Then he turns to Sherlock, who nods and holds out his hand solemnly. Mycroft shakes it. Sherlock’s fingers are cool and smooth in his own.

Later that night, he’s halfway through one of his gifts – a fresh analysis of the Cold War – when his mobile buzzes.

_Merry Christmas, Mycroft._

Mycroft sets his book aside, and picks up the phone, contemplating the message for far longer than its due. He thinks about Victor, of someone else’s hands unwinding Sherlock’s scarf from around his neck before touching him in all the ways that Mycroft cannot. It makes him loathe Christmas more than ever. Even so, he dutifully returns Sherlock’s text.

_Merry Christmas, brother mine._


	5. 1998

Mycroft is sitting up in bed, reading the latest analyses of the Philippines election, when his phone buzzes. In the past six months his workload has increased at an exponential rate, as though Caldwell is testing the breaking strain of his newest employee. Mycroft regards it as a personal challenge – for the first time he has access to more data than he knows what to do with, a chance to begin unravelling and reworking the threads of the world. He glances at the clock, which sits beside the phone on the bedside table, and frowns at the screen. Slowly, he sets his current file atop the pile on the floor, and his fingers stretch towards the phone, hesitating slightly before pushing the answer button.

“Sherlock.” His voice is carefully neutral, neither a question nor a reprimand. There’s a long silence during which he can hear the whisper of Sherlock’s breath, in and out. “This is hardly the time.”

Since Christmas, he and Sherlock have tentatively repaired their relationship, texts progressing to calls, even an occasional meal in public when Sherlock makes the effort to come down to London. Still, Sherlock’s typical communications are short and to the point – texts about his work, how bored he is, or some random fact or anecdote that’s caught his attention. Sometimes it’s a flurry of texts, one after the other, even if Mycroft makes no reply. Sherlock has always needed an audience. Phone calls, however, are rare, and never this late. It’s nearly midnight.

“Tell me a story, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s voice comes soft and slightly slurred through the phone’s speaker as Mycroft holds it to his ear.

The crease in Mycroft’s forehead deepens. “Are you _drunk_?”

“Maybe. Maybe a bit drunk.” Defiance echoes in his tone. “Maybe a bit everything. Can’t sleep.”

“I see.” Mycroft keeps his voice calm and level, as though Sherlock were a situation to be analysed. “And where is Victor at this desperate time? Surely by now that ought to be _his_ problem, not mine.”

Sherlock laughs, short and bitter. “You tell me.”

Those three words tell Mycroft everything he needs to know. Mycroft has experienced his own share of relationship breakdowns, but he’s a pragmatist. There’s no point in dwelling on what can’t be changed. But Sherlock, for all his cynical posturing, has always been something of a romantic. Mycroft cares nothing at all for Victor, who he’s heard a little about, but never met. Nor does he want to hear the finer details of what he might have meant to Sherlock, or for what might have happened between them. Still, he aches for his brother’s pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it.

“Don’t.” Whatever artificial peace Sherlock has procured isn’t quite enough to keep the edge from his tone. “Spare me the platitudes. Why don’t we talk about your love life instead?”

“That’s easy enough. I haven’t got one.” There’s no real shortage of opportunity – Caldwell’s offices are well-stocked with attractive young men – but Mycroft has his eye on advancement, and anxious to avoid all of the complications that come with inter-office relationships. Outside of work, there simply hasn’t been time. As reasons go, they’re eminently practical and sensible ones that easily stand up to public scrutiny. Mycroft has avoided giving the subject any deeper consideration.

“Why?”

“Because I’m far too busy. In fact, I was working when you phoned me.”

“Are you still in the office? No, you can’t be, the acoustics are all wrong. You’re at home. And it’s past eleven, so you’re probably in bed.”

“And you’re not just drunk, are you? You’ve smoked something, taken something. What is it?”

“None of your business.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

The effects of drugs – prescription or otherwise – on the human nervous system are something Mycroft has never had cause to research, so he knows little more than what he’s gleaned from general reading over the years. Sherlock doesn’t sound particularly manic, or particularly calm, just… a little too relaxed. Uninhibited. But then there’s the effects of the alcohol to consider, if Sherlock has in fact had a drink or two as well. That can’t be safe. Mycroft makes a grim note to look into it further tomorrow.

“Whatever it is, just don’t take any more of it tonight, all right? Of anything. Promise me, Sherlock.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me a story.”

“All right,” Mycroft says. “But I think you’re a bit old for pirates, don’t you? Perhaps you’d like to hear the latest international reactions to President Estrada? He was an actor before running for office, apparently. It seems to be quite the fashion for Presidents nowadays.”

“Not in the slightest. ”

“Then I’m afraid I’m at something of a loss. What would you like to hear?”

“Tell me about… “ Sherlock’s voice is soft again, almost dreamy. “Tell me a story about two brothers. Who loved each other very much.”

“Sherlock…”

“Except that the older one only cared about his work, and what people might think, and was horribly, horribly dull.”

Mycroft feels a familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach, and the memories of Sherlock half-naked in his living room spring unbidden into his mind. _This isn’t over_ , Sherlock had said, but that was almost a year ago now, and then there had been the lab and Victor to keep his brother gainfully occupied, and Mycroft had chosen to believe what he’d wanted to believe.

“And the younger one thought that if only he waited long enough his brother would realise that it wasn’t just some silly phase, and that he could use his enormous brain to find a way for them to have what they both wanted.”

Sherlock pauses, but Mycroft can think of nothing to say. His mouth is dry.

“But he never did. And so the younger brother did his best to be _normal_ , and find a _normal_ job and have a _normal_ relationship, but it didn’t work. None of it worked. Because he was never going to be _normal_.”

His voice catches on the last word, and to his horror Mycroft realises that Sherlock is crying – not the dramatic sobs of childhood, but a near-soundless weeping. Only the ragged edge to his breathing gives him away.

“Please, Sherlock,” he says, and then stops, helpless. “Hush, it’s all right. Shhh.”

Of course it’s not all right, in any way, but Mycroft’s words seem to have a soothing effect on both of them. He hears the gradual slowing of Sherlock’s breaths, imagines him swiping a shirt sleeve across his eyes as he used to do in childhood.

“You know I can’t…” Mycroft says, as much to himself as to Sherlock. ‘No matter how much you might – yes, all right – no matter how much we might _both_ want to…”

“There’s no reason you can’t. You’re not even _here_.”

Mycroft is suddenly wary. “What is it you want, Sherlock?”

“I want you to kiss me again. Like you did that day. Like you mean it.”

“Sherlock…”

“I still think about it… sometimes. All the time. Do you?”

Mycroft slumps back against his pillows, closing his eyes. Of course he thinks about it. Not very often – it’s an indulgence, a memory to get him through the difficult days, the empty nights. Almost unconsciously, his free hand traces the contours of his own mouth, remembering the softness of Sherlock’s lips, the smell of him. He can’t help the sudden rush of blood to his face, his cock.

“Do you know where I am?” Sherlock asks, reading his silence perfectly. “I’m in bed, too. Thinking about you kissing me. Everywhere. As though you really were going to...”

Mycroft swallows, biting his lip briefly before his tongue flicks out to moisten it. He’s quite certain that this is terribly wrong, but Sherlock makes it all sound so reasonable, so easy. Physically, they’re nowhere near each other, so Mycroft isn’t really kissing Sherlock, isn’t really rubbing his cheek against Sherlock’s, or burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. They’re having a conversation, nothing more. Even if it’s the sort of conversation Mycroft knows they really ought not to be having.

“Then you start touching me,” Sherlock says. “You’re in your pyjamas, aren’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m not wearing anything at all.”

 _Oh, god._ The thought makes Mycroft shiver, sends an unstoppable pulse of desire through him. He notes his arousal almost clinically, as though from a distance, feeling the brush of his cock against the flannel of his pyjamas. He doesn’t touch himself. His free hand rests lightly on his chest, his fingers clenched into a fist.

“You start with your hands on my face as you kiss me, and then you draw them down over my shoulders.” Sherlock’s voice is steady, but his breathing is fast and shallow. “You put one hand on my chest and push me down onto the bed.”

Mycroft sees it all too clearly in his mind’s eye, sees Sherlock naked and laid out before him on navy-dark sheets, the exact colour of the scarf Mycroft bought him for Christmas _._ Sherlock’s eyes burn blue. His skin is pale and slightly glistening with sweat, his cheeks pink, and his cock is full and hard above his belly. He strokes it gently as Mycroft watches.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock suddenly sounds uncertain. Mycroft has been silent for far too long.

“Yes,” he says hesitantly. His throat is dry. “I’m here.”

“Are you hard? You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft admits. His cheeks are burning.

“Good,” Sherlock says. “And this time you’ll touch me, won’t you? So I can pretend it’s your hand on me, right now.”

It’s all Mycroft can do not to touch himself. His free hand is clenched so tightly the tendons ache.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Yes, all right, Sherlock. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock groans, a little theatrically, and Mycroft can hear it faintly in the background, the obscene slide of Sherlock’s hand on his own cock. No, not Sherlock’s hand, _Mycroft’s_. Sherlock straddling him on the settee, the way Mycroft’s hand had grazed the silken edge of his cock before retreating. He imagines himself back there now, reaching for Sherlock, wrapping his fingers tightly around and letting Sherlock thrust into his fist.

“It’s all I ever wanted.” Sherlock says. “Are you touching yourself yet?”

“No,” Mycroft says softly.

“I want you to. I want you to imagine me crawling between your legs and sucking you off. You really thought I might, didn’t you? Come back one night and surprise you. I did think about it. More than once. But you’re so… you’d never have let me, would you?”

Mycroft isn’t sure. He isn’t sure of anything any more.

“Touch yourself,” Sherlock orders. And then, more gently, “Please.”

 _It’s not real_ , Mycroft thinks desperately. Even if he can’t have Sherlock, he can have this, surely. It’s really no worse than wanking off to his own fantasises, even if Sherlock is right there listening to him do it. He’s not actually touching Sherlock, so he can’t hurt him, can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. Rationalisations and justifications overwhelm his better judgement, and Mycroft’s breath rushes out in a long exhale as his hand slowly unclenches, moving down to rest against the crotch of his pyjama bottoms, rubbing lightly. He’s so hard that at first it feels more like relief than pleasure, a reprieve from pain.

“Oh,” he says quietly, reverently.

He hears Sherlock’s breath catch, as if he never quite believed Mycroft would comply. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Spread your legs apart,” Sherlock says, and Mycroft stops long enough to hook his hand around the elastic of his pyjama bottoms and slide them off. They disappear down the end of the bed, along with the covers, as he lifts his knees and plants his heels shoulder width apart. Then his hand returns to his cock, stroking tentatively, then a little harder.

“I think I’d kneel between your legs, first, and touch you,” Sherlock continues. “I’d want to taste you first, just a little at a time, and then I’d suck you properly.”

Mycroft continues stroking himself, now using his fingers to catch the pre-ejaculate at the tip of his cock, using it to slick his movements. It’s all too easy to imagine Sherlock looking up at him as he stretches that incredible mouth wide enough to take Mycroft in. Mycroft’s bucks up into the grip of his own hand as he imagines Sherlock’s mouth, warm and wet around his cock.

“I’d slide my mouth up and down, over and over, and then I’d use my hand on you at the same time.”

Mycroft’s head falls back against the pillow as he imagines Sherlock’s long, beautiful fingers curling around the base of his cock, Sherlock’s lips obscenely red and swollen around his shaft. His cock disappearing into Sherlock’s mouth. Even in his most private thoughts, he rarely goes so far, but Sherlock’s insistence is impossible to refuse.

“Then I’d… I’d climb on top of you. So I could wrap my hand around both of us. Together.”

“Please,” Mycroft begs, as his hand moves faster on his cock. His pyjama top feels damp and constraining, and he can almost feel the weight of Sherlock pressing down upon him, the smell of him, his skin slick with sweat. The surge of desire is building, unstoppable. “I need you to…”

“I want to hear it, Mycroft,” Sherlock says suddenly, urgently. “I want to hear you come.”

“Sherlock…” _I love you_ , Mycroft thinks, before he’s reduced to sobbing gasps of breath. The phone slips from his fingers as his body convulses, but he hears Sherlock calling him, thin and faint, before the connection is abruptly broken. He’s alone once more. Mycroft reaches for the phone and weighs it in his hand for a full minute, catching his breath, waiting, but nothing happens, and he sets it slowly back on the bedside table. He lies there in the silence, staring at the ceiling, and tries not to think about anything at all.


	6. 1999

It doesn’t happen again.

The next day Mycroft risks a carefully neutral text. _Are you all right?_

_Fine._

To his relief, that single exchange appears to put an end to the matter. Mycroft’s nights go once more undisturbed, although for a time he sleeps badly, as though Sherlock has successfully transferred that particular burden onto him. He doesn’t push for explanations or clarifications, or bother warning Sherlock not to try again. These are all things that will be brought up as necessary if the situation arises, but Sherlock’s texts and conversations resume their usual frequency and tone, as though in tacit agreement that their late-night phone call had never happened. Sherlock doesn’t mention Victor again.

Mycroft isn’t sure whether Sherlock is satisfied or horrified at having got at least something of what he’d claimed to want, but he doesn’t want to question it, either. In his head, he hears Sherlock’s voice calling him _coward_ , with which he can only agree.

Instead, he throws himself into the distractions of work more gratefully than ever. As the months pass, Mycroft discovers that Caldwell’s reach extends far further than he’d ever imagined – while there are predictable rivalries between individual members of the Committee, a great deal of intelligence is nevertheless pooled and circulated for their collective benefit. The Committee’s reach extends not only through every national government department, including MI-5 and MI-6, but into foreign security networks as well, including the CIA, Russia’s SVR, and the Chinese Ministry for State Security. If anything Mycroft had been extraordinarily naïve when he’d first approached Caldwell; he can only imagine the extent to which his background had been security checked before being invited into his employ. It also makes him more determined than ever to avoid risking being tempted further by Sherlock.

Until the day he arrives home to find his front door ajar, the lock clearly tampered with, and Sherlock stretched out along his sofa, reading. The concerns of Mycroft’s day immediately dissipate into the contradictory mix of emotions that Sherlock always stirs in him. The door will no longer shut properly, so he slots the chain into place before turning back to face down his brother. At least Sherlock looks healthy enough, and not obviously under the influence of anything more damaging than caffeine. Despite his simmering exasperation Mycroft can’t help but drink in the sight of him, a study in repose. Sherlock’s taken off his black jacket, which is draped over a chair, but kept Mycroft’s scarf around his neck, the navy blue a deep contrast to the white of his T-shirt.

Mycroft hasn’t seen him for at least two months, since a Christmas that had proved almost as awkward as the one before it. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically subdued, which had made him seem paradoxically both younger and older, as though he were trying on adulthood to see whether it suited him. They had made carefully civil conversation, avoiding any mention of Victor, and Mycroft had deliberately taken a second helping of pudding with brandy custard – without the slightest intention of eating it – that had gone entirely unremarked upon. Sherlock had even bought him presents: a CD of Chopin’s waltzes, a historical novel set in ancient Rome, and most surprising of all, a silk pocket square in a plain dark red. It was an accessory Mycroft had not seriously considered up to that point, regarding them as a little staid, old-fashioned. Still, Sherlock has always had excellent taste, and so he’d taken to wearing it to work now and again, like a talisman. Or perhaps, a reminder.

As Sherlock’s gaze flicks up from his book and towards the red triangle tucked into the pocket of Mycroft’s horribly expensive jacket, he wonders again whether he should have kept it. It’s nothing but a piece of cloth, and yet it suddenly seems like an admission of sorts, although of what he’s not quite certain. Sentiment, perhaps. But everything else aside, Sherlock is still his brother, and surely that’s reason enough to show appreciation for his gifts. The problem being, of course, that things haven’t been that simple for a very long time.

Still, Sherlock’s mouth curves slightly at the sight of Mycroft wearing it, and Mycroft is torn between genuine pleasure at Sherlock’s reaction and the slightly more pressing desire to strangle him.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” He sets his briefcase down beside the table, folds his arms, and waits.

Sherlock shrugs, sets his book aside and rearranges himself into a more conventional sitting position. “I’ve just moved to London. Thought I’d drop by.”

While this revelation instantly raises a whole host of associated concerns, Mycroft holds them at bay for the moment, refusing to be distracted from his current outrage. “Most people would have simply phoned ahead and _asked_ to visit.”

“Why? You would only have said no.”

In that he’s unquestionably correct, and so Mycroft is forced to change tack.

“That was a deadlock.”

“Yes, but not a very _good_ one. Took under a minute.”

“The entire purpose of which is to discourage uninvited guests. I could have you arrested, you know. Breaking and entering.”

The threat sounds ridiculous even to his own ears, and he regrets it immediately as Sherlock laughs. Under Caldwell’s sponsorship, Mycroft has made several presentations before the Committee, has successfully defended his analyses and conclusions to lords and ladies, military commanders and millionaires, but somehow Sherlock retains the uncanny ability to fluster him.

“Oooh, sounds like fun. Go ahead – I’d love to see you try.”

Mycroft sighs and concedes defeat. Normally, upon arriving home, he would begin by taking off his jacket, loosening his tie, but faced with Sherlock he feels he needs every advantage he can get. He stands and stares down at him, which appears not to bother his brother in the slightest.

“I suppose under the circumstances, I hardly need ask after the fate of your job at the laboratory?”

“It was dull, anyway. But I’ve acquired an excellent collection of glassware.”

“I’m sure. And where are you living now?”

“I’ve rented a bedsit in the East End for now – ugly, but cheap.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft waits, but Sherlock is clearly not about to make it easy for him. “And in that case, shouldn’t you be _there_ rather than _here_?”

Sherlock abruptly sobers, and glances away. “I thought, perhaps…” His fingers drum lightly on his knee before he lifts his eyes to meet Mycroft’s again with fresh determination. “I wanted to ask you something. In person.”

“Sherlock…”

“I haven’t forgotten, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s eyes are suddenly alight with an intensity Mycroft finds disquieting. “And neither have you.”

 _This isn’t over._ Over a year has passed since Sherlock’s graduation; six months since that late-night phone call. Of course Mycroft hasn’t forgotten – may not, in fact, be capable of it – but has successfully managed to push those memories into a box-room somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. Better not to think about sex at all, but to retreat into the life of the intellect, free himself from physical temptations as much as possible. It hasn’t entirely worked – he still eats a little too much, at times, but he’s learned to compensate for it with exercise. A quick, unthinking wank in the shower when necessary takes care of the rest. While Sherlock has lost none of his aesthetic appeal, it means that Mycroft can once more look at him and see only his aggravating little brother.

Sherlock’s expression, however, demands he _remember_.

“That’s enough, Sherlock. Are you hungry? Perhaps we could go out and have dinner. ”

“Just once.”

“There’s a Japanese place just down the road I’ve been meaning to try. They have noodles, if you don’t care for sushi.”

“And then I’ll never ask again.” Sherlock’s gaze hasn’t wavered an inch. “I promise.”

“But under the circumstances I really ought to stay here until I can get a locksmith in, so perhaps you’d best go on ahead.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s hand catches hold of his and refuses to be shaken off. Mycroft remembers when Sherlock’s hands fit into his palm, like tiny starfish. Now his hands are enormous, larger even than Mycroft’s, his long fingers bony and strong. “Listen to me.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll come back again next week.” Sherlock has released him now, but it’s of little comfort. “Or, since I happen to be unemployed at the moment, perhaps tomorrow. And perhaps the day after that. And…”

Mycroft is suddenly exhausted. He’s not yet quite turned thirty, but has already become a supplementary adviser to the British Government. He’s shown that he can analyse any complex situation – the timeline, the history, the people – and predict its outcome more accurately than the best existing computer models. And yet he always seems to be at a loss when it comes to dealing with a single erratic individual – his brother.

“I said that’s enough, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stops talking, but continues to regard him with that same expectant air. Mycroft slumps into the single armchair and presses his fingers briefly to his temples, then runs them backwards through his hair.

“For God’s sake, you know very well how things are. Between… us. And you know exactly _why_ things are. So why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says softly, and perhaps that’s the most terrifying answer of all, the one that defies any logical rebuttal.

“Try.” It sounds dangerously close to a plea.

“I just want to know what it’s like. With you.” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “When I was younger, I always thought that one day… that you would be the one to show me…”

“Did I… did I ever say anything? Do anything to you?” Mycroft fears the answer, but he needs to know. “To make you think that?” All the things that were innocent enough at the time haunt him now – Sherlock creeping into his bed at night for a story, or bursting into his room when he was in the middle of getting dressed. The times he’d hugged Sherlock close, or tickled him, or kissed his hair. Sherlock was so much younger in his eyes that Mycroft had always thought of him as a child, had never seen him as anything else until Sherlock had kissed him that night. Maybe that makes it worse.

“No, nothing like that. But when I got older, sometimes I saw you looking… I mean, I could tell that you… wanted me. You still do.” It’s not quite a statement, not quite a question. Mycroft dips his head briefly in acknowledgement, in shame. Sherlock had phoned him looking for comfort, and Mycroft had somehow entirely lost control of the situation.

“But you realise there are literally millions of people in the world who would be far more suited to you. Someone more like... well, like Victor.” He utters the name delicately, heedful of Sherlock's feelings.

Sherlock's face hardens. “What about him? What about _any_ of them? It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Why?” Mycroft demands. “Because none of them would be breaking the law to be with you? Because none of them could bear to refuse you? Isn’t that the real reason? To see how much chaos you can possibly cause?”

“Because none of them will ever want me as much.”

The quiet certainty in Sherlock’s voice stops Mycroft’s anger in its tracks. “You value yourself so little.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “I think _you_ rather overestimate my… appeal.”

“Please, Sherlock. You have only to look in the mirror.”

“Oh, yes, fine, and so I find someone from the _millions_ who might have me, and what then? A week, a month? Before I’m told I’m too rude, too thoughtless, too unbearable to be with?”

Mycroft frowns at Sherlock’s choice of words. At Sherlock’s age he was more than happy with the slow dance of flirtation leading to the occasional fling, perhaps even a weekend away. He would have shied away from anything more permanent. But Sherlock speaks as though already in search of a life partner, rather than a lover. It seems an impracticably romantic notion, even for him.

“Then you move onto the next one,” Mycroft says.

“You mean, the way you have?” Sherlock gestures at the pristine neatness of the room.

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Then maybe we should be. Why don’t _you_ have anyone yet? I mean, you’re not _that_ ugly.”

“How kind.” An odd flash of warmth glimmers between them. “The fact is, Sherlock, that there are certain things I want to do in my career, and I can’t afford to have weaknesses. Emotional relationships – of any kind – are weaknesses.”

“But that includes family.”

“Yes,” Mycroft concedes.

“So I wouldn’t be making it any _worse_.” The weight of Sherlock’s hand settles on his leg, and Mycroft tenses, but lets it lie.

“It’s simply too risky.” He places his hand lightly over Sherlock’s, just to feel the connection between them. “You called me a coward, that day. You were right.”

“I was angry.”

“Yes. That doesn’t make it untrue. But more than that, I can’t ever be sure it wasn’t something I said or did to you when you were younger that made you this way. And it would be wrong to take advantage of that.”

Sherlock shakes his head, his face hardening. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not some mindless innocent. You didn’t _make_ me anything. I made me. You give yourself far too much credit.”

“Perhaps.”

“Just once,” Sherlock says again, and his fingers tighten on Mycroft’s leg. “Then I won’t ask anything like that from you ever again. I’ll behave in a perfectly _brotherly_ fashion, and I won’t make any more trouble for you. Well, no more than usual.”

Mycroft gives him a wry smile and lets his hand remain atop Sherlock’s, stroking it gently as he considers. As always, Sherlock has the knack of complicating what ought to be a perfectly clear-cut situation. If he gives in just this once – to Sherlock, to _himself_ – then the situation will be resolved for good. As long as he trusts Sherlock to keep his word, which, surprisingly, he does. He remembers how well Sherlock had behaved during his teenage years and at university, when Mycroft hadn’t even been aware of his deeper intentions. Sherlock may have a criminally devious mind, but he keeps his promises.

Then of course, there are the more blatant temptations. He lifts his head to contemplate Sherlock’s face as though it were a stranger’s, noting the dark curls, the ever-shifting colour of his eyes, the exquisite lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth. Sherlock himself has no real appreciation for aesthetics – he’s aware of his own attractiveness in a dispassionate way, but regards it as either a useful tool or a minor inconvenience, depending on the situation. It’s always been left to Mycroft to appreciate it on his behalf. And while he’s been able to manage his inappropriate feelings for Sherlock, he still suffers from the ongoing uncertainty that what Sherlock will do or say next might tempt him into ruin. At least this arrangement promises to… contain the damage, as far as possible. He would be a fool to say yes, but perhaps an even bigger fool to say no.

“Not… here,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes flash in triumph, but he remains otherwise composed. “Where, then?”

“I could rent a cottage for the weekend, perhaps. Somewhere private. The Lakes District is quite pleasant in summer. We could say we went… fishing.” Mycroft’s mouth curves in distaste as Sherlock laughs.

“Boating, more likely. But summer’s months away.”

“Two months. Enough time for me to find somewhere suitable and for you to find yourself a new job.”

“But what if you change your mind?”

“I won’t,” he says. “Especially with you in London to remind me.”

Sherlock nods, apparently satisfied. “True.”

Mycroft lets go of Sherlock’s hand and stands, and Sherlock does likewise. Despite having just sold his soul to the devil, Mycroft feels more at ease with Sherlock than he has in a long time. Perhaps it’s the sheer relief of knowing there might be a resolution to this doesn’t automatically spell disaster for both of them. “Now, what do you say I call a locksmith, and then we go out to dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Perhaps I could change your mind.” With slow deliberation, Mycroft leans forward and presses a small kiss to the side of Sherlock’s mouth. It’s wicked of him, but if he’s come this far, he might as well take whatever advantage he can of the situation. Sherlock is still far too thin.

“Oh, all right,” Sherlock says, mock-resentful. “I suppose someone should make sure you stick to your diet.”

“Yes, very amusing.” Mycroft rummages in a drawer for the phone directory and starts leafing through it. “But I’m afraid there’s one more thing I’m going to have to ask of you, Sherlock.”

“Hmm? And what’s that?”

“I expect _you_ to pay for the locks.”


	7. 1999

Almost as soon as Mycroft has opened the door, Sherlock has deposited his sports bag on the rug and gone straight to the window. Mycroft shuts the door behind him, still carrying his own bag, and follows at a more sedate pace. The heavy blue drapes framing the French windows have been drawn back and secured with sashes, allowing a clear view of the open deck leading onto the wooden jetty beyond. The lake begins only a few metres from the cottage’s edge, the early afternoon sun casting speckles of light across its surface. When Sherlock opens one of the windows, the sound of ripping water acts as counterpoint to the leafy silence, interrupted only by an occasional bird call.

“I suppose it was worth it,” Sherlock says begrudgingly. It’s taken them almost six hours to reach Cumbria, braving the weekend traffic on the M6, and stopping briefly for lunch in Preston. They’d taken turns behind the wheel of Mycroft’s car – Mycroft had borne it a little better than Sherlock, who tended to drive a little too fast and mutter darkly at fellow drivers under his breath – but it’s still a relief to be able to stretch his legs at last.

“I wanted it to be special.” Mycroft follows him out onto the deck and together they stroll the length of the short jetty. “And private.”

The cottage stands on the edge of a much larger estate, dominated by the manor they’d passed earlier on the gravel drive. It had originally been converted for temporary use while the great house was being renovated, and is now let to holidaymakers during the summer, when the owners fly to Italy. There is a direct telephone line to the skeleton staff in the main house, and they can request assistance should they require it, but otherwise they will be left entirely alone. The letting agent had been a heavily bejewelled, voluble woman who apparently could not hand over the keys without giving Mycroft a reprise of everything she’d already said on the phone. Sherlock had, thankfully, remained in the car.

At least her laudatory descriptions have proven accurate. The boathouse occupies a slight inward bend in the lake, with trees coming down to the shoreline on either side. Across the water the land rises sharply into green wooded hills, as yet undisturbed by heavy machinery. A single rowboat bobs beside another jetty in the distance – they have one of their own, too, lodged between the pilings – but otherwise there’s very little sign of human trespass.

“It would be an excellent place to dump a body,” Sherlock remarks.

Mycroft is less alarmed than amused – Sherlock has always shown more than a passing interest in crime and criminals, but his newfound job at the forensics lab has only exacerbated the situation. “I hope you’re not getting any ideas.”

“That rather depends, doesn’t it?’ Sherlock holds out a hand like an imperative, and Mycroft takes it. In another time, Mycroft is thirteen, and Sherlock is six, and the water in front of them is Cornwall blue, breaking in rumbling white crests along the shoreline. But here the lake is still and grey. “On how this turns out.”

“I would hate not to live up to expectations,” Mycroft says.

The awareness of his own culpability still weighs heavy on Mycroft’s conscience, but this time it’s he who reaches for Sherlock’s other hand, turning Sherlock gently towards him. Even though here he feels they’re as safe as they can be from prying eyes, Mycroft fights down a bout of trepidation as he leans forward to kiss his brother softly on the mouth. For these two days, he vows to leave cowardice behind.

Sherlock tenses in surprise and then stills, allowing Mycroft to press forward a little further, indulging himself in the softness of Sherlock’s lips, the rush of his breath. He’s suppressed his desires for so long that it takes him a moment to feel anything at all. Sherlock, too, is slow to respond, careful rather than passionate. The sun is warm on their backs, but the breeze from the lake is cool and fresh. At last Mycroft pulls back, and holds Sherlock gently away from him, so he can see his face.

“I love you,” he says quietly. Even if the weekend proves to be a disaster, he hopes that Sherlock will remember this one truth that outweighs all else.

Sherlock makes an odd sound of frustration, and suddenly pushes himself into Mycroft’s arms, much the way he’d done as a child. Only he’s far too big for it now, and Mycroft takes a single step backwards before righting himself and returning Sherlock’s embrace. He hugs Sherlock fiercely, remembering a time before physical desire had confused everything between them. How long it’s been since such innocent pleasures – Sherlock had always been boisterously affectionate, but somewhere between twelve and thirteen had suddenly turned cool and standoffish, as though to him becoming a teenager had meant ceasing to be a child. Mycroft remembers the way Sherlock had hugged him when he’d returned from university one year for the summer holidays, but shied away violently when he’d left again.

Now Sherlock is hugging him as though trying to make up for all the years in between, and Mycroft takes shameless advantage of being able to stroke his curls and pet him without, for once, wanting anything more. Although at the same time, he can’t help being acutely aware of the purpose of this entire weekend away. He wonders, not for the first time, what on earth he thinks he’s doing.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, when Sherlock releases him.

In that moment, Sherlock, too, looks uncharacteristically hesitant. He glances out at the lake, then back at Mycroft, and suddenly grins. His fingers go to the buttons of his collared shirt, and begin working their way down. He jerks his chin towards Mycroft’s own clothing.

“Well, hurry up,” he says.

“Sherlock! Not here!” Despite everything, Mycroft is scandalised.

Sherlock laughs. “How far would you say it is across the lake? About sixty metres?”

“About that, yes.”

“I’ll race you.”

“Oh, god, no.” Mycroft goes swimming at least once a week as part of his wretched exercise program, but pools are civilised. And _warm_.

“Come on, Mycroft.” Sherlock has stripped off his own shirt and is now unbuttoning Mycroft’s. A development Mycroft had admittedly allowed for this weekend, but perhaps not under quite these circumstances. “When was the last time you had any _fun_?”

 _Come on, Mycroft!_ , a six-year-old Sherlock yells, pelting headlong into the waves.

“No reasonable definition of which involves plunging into an icy cold lake,” Mycroft protests, but slides the shirt off his shoulders anyway, and bends down to mirror Sherlock in taking off his shoes and socks.

“I’m sure it’s not _that_ cold.” Sherlock throws him a look of bravado as he unfastens his trousers, and steps swiftly out of the rest of his clothing. Mycroft is decidedly slower, in between his natural reluctance and the distraction of Sherlock’s nakedness. As he folds his trousers, he doesn’t miss the quick eye Sherlock casts over his still slightly-overweight form, and tries not to blush.

“At least one of us is bound to regret this,” Mycroft says, then adds, “So it might as well be you.”

He lunges at Sherlock, who is already at the edge of the jetty in preparation, and gives him a single hard shove. Sherlock flails in disbelief, then falls into the water with an undignified squawk. Mycroft pauses long enough to savour Sherlock’s outrage before following with a shallow dive, and gasps as the cold momentarily takes his breath away. He receives a faceful of water in retaliation and then Sherlock’s heading off towards the far bank as Mycroft gives chase.

Sherlock has the early lead, but Mycroft quickly gains. In a footrace the advantage would be all Sherlock’s, but Mycroft has always been the stronger swimmer – “natural buoyancy” being Sherlock’s explanation, inevitably – and he reaches the opposite shore a few seconds ahead. He scrambles up the bank and turns to wait for Sherlock to emerge, dripping. Mycroft ungraciously declares victory, which prompts Sherlock to call him a cheat and prod him disparagingly in the belly. Mycroft laughs. It’s the kind of uncomplicated happiness he hasn’t felt for a very long time.

The rocky ground on the other side of the lake is inhospitable, and it’s even colder out of the water, so they immediately head back in, swimming the return leg at a more relaxed pace. Mycroft lingers in the water to watch Sherlock haul himself over the edge of the jetty, admiring the view. They use their shirts to towel off as best they can before going back inside.

The cottage has two bedrooms on a loft level, the main one facing the lake, the smaller one tucked behind, with a shared bathroom between them. As they dump their sports bags on the floor of the master bedroom, Mycroft casts a swift glance at the double bed, then at Sherlock, who pretends not to notice. Mycroft leaves him to warm up with a shower while he sorts through the bags for fresh clothing, leaving Sherlock’s in a pile on the bed. Then he goes back downstairs to check on the modest supplies he’d requested be laid in for them, and brew some tea.

When Sherlock returns, he’s ignored Mycroft’s selection of clothes in favour of a fluffy white bathrobe evidently provided by their hosts. After a second’s hesitation, he kisses Mycroft on the cheek and accepts a mug of tea. The tension between them is back, but its quality has changed – it’s as though they’re acting out a parody of cosy domesticity that has no basis in fact. As though they’ve skipped ahead to an impossible future. When Mycroft comes downstairs in his own matching bathrobe to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa and a plate of biscuits on the table, it only strengthens the illusion.

He sinks down into the plush black leather next to Sherlock, who huddles a little closer to lean his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, and once again Mycroft has to fight down the surge of unreality. _It could be like this_ , the irrational part of his brain insists, the same part that once wanted to hide Sherlock in his apartment forever. As long as he and Sherlock never actually _did_ anything untoward, it would be a perfectly innocent co-habitation. A harmless eccentricity.

Mycroft still isn’t quite yet delusional.

They talk for a little while, about the geology of Cumbria, and then the chemical distinctions of tobacco ash, with which Sherlock has developed a particular fascination. All the while the tension thrums softly between them. Mycroft relaxes into the slow build of it, the feel of Sherlock’s hand lightly stroking his thigh amidst discussions of volcanic activity and the minerals of the Caldbeck Fells, nuzzling into the side of Sherlock’s neck as he expands upon peristaltic pumps and trace metal analysis.

“Fascinating,” Mycroft says, meaning it, but suddenly unwilling to spend any more time on the finer points of inductively coupled plasma mass spectrometry.

Instead, he reaches up to lay a gentle hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and kisses him. Sherlock is still for a moment, his breath catching slightly, and then turns towards him. They trade kisses in a slow back and forth as Mycroft lets Sherlock’s responses guide his actions. Sherlock’s fingers slide beneath the cloth to trace lingering patterns on Mycroft’s bare thigh, taking on a more suggestive air. Mycroft hesitates, and then reciprocates, pushing aside a fold of Sherlock’s bathrobe to caress the skin beneath. It feels shockingly intimate, and Sherlock breathes a soft wordless sigh into his mouth.

“Tell me,” Mycroft murmurs, “what you want.”

Sherlock shakes his head, as though afraid to risk the moment by speaking. His hands go to untie the knot around Mycroft’s waist and push the fabric aside, exposing a long strip of skin from neck to knee. Mycroft is laid bare under his gaze, his cock still only half-hard, uncertain. He resists the urge to cover himself and concentrates on breathing, in and out, letting Sherlock explore at his own pace. Sherlock first smooths a hand through the dark fuzz of hair on Mycroft’s chest, trailing it down to the small soft paunch of his belly. Mycroft squirms slightly, ticklish, and Sherlock grins and kisses him, just above the bellybutton.

Bolder now, Sherlock’s fingers hover over Mycroft’s cock before brushing it lightly, then again, watching it twitch and swell in response. Mycroft gasps softly as Sherlock’s hand wraps around his shaft. It’s everything he might have wanted, but now that it’s happening he can still barely believe it. Sherlock shifts closer, hooking one leg over Mycroft’s thigh, and his erection is hard against Mycroft’s hip. He begins kissing Mycroft again as his hand works Mycroft’s cock in leisurely strokes. Trapped between the heat of Sherlock’s hand and his beautiful mouth, Mycroft shuts his eyes and surrenders.

For long moments, Mycroft is suspended in pleasure, and then Sherlock is moving off the sofa and down between Mycroft’s legs. Something about the sight shocks Mycroft out of his blissful haze, reminding him again how much they – _he_ – ought not to be doing this.

“Please,” he begs, although for what, he’s not certain.

Sherlock’s gaze flicks upwards to Mycroft’s face, maintaining deliberate eye contact even as he licks a long, slow stripe along Mycroft’s cock. The sight threatens to undo him.

“Oh, god.” Mycroft shuts his eyes and let it happen. He should want to see this, the warm wet slide of Sherlock’s lips stretched tightly over his cock, but he knows he will never forget it. Will never want to forget it. _Coward_ , Sherlock whispers in his mind. When Mycroft opens his eyes again, Sherlock is bent low over his cock, and Mycroft reaches trembling fingers to tangle in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock is surprisingly clumsy, erratic in his movements, and at times he’s forced to pause as he tries to take in too much at once. Still, there’s no question of his willingness, his desire to please, which temporarily soothes Mycroft’s qualms. It’s been years since anyone did this to him, for him, and Mycroft struggles not to thrust down Sherlock’s throat as he feels his orgasm building.

“Sherlock,” he warns, his hands tightening in Sherlock’s hair, but Sherlock only sucks harder, his hand working faster on the base of Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft groans, panting, and bucks uncontrollably as he comes, shooting pulse after pulse into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock chokes slightly, but manages to take it all, his hand continuing to move until Mycroft covers it with his own, persuades him to stop. Mycroft can’t think, can barely breathe as he slumps backwards into the sofa cushions. The sharp scent of his own release fills the air, and he can taste it as Sherlock kisses his open mouth.

He’s dimly aware of Sherlock shrugging off his bathrobe and moving up to straddle his lap. This time when Sherlock guides Mycroft’s hand, he doesn’t flinch away. He allows himself to touch Sherlock at last, the skin of Sherlock’s cock silken heat under his hands. Sherlock’s muscles are tense, his breath coming short and sharp as Mycroft strokes him. His face and chest are flushed pink, and after Mycroft kisses him, he laps at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, salt and sweat. Sherlock moans softly, and Mycroft needs, suddenly to taste him. His hand stills on Sherlock’s cock.

“Please,” he says, gesturing, as Sherlock’s eyes flick open.

Sherlock nods, and stands up, moving between Mycroft’s spread legs. His cock is slim and full, as exquisite as the rest of him, and Mycroft licks at it briefly before taking the tip into his mouth. He sucks lightly at first, caressing the glans with his tongue, the taste and smell of Sherlock flooding his senses. Sherlock is utterly still, although his hands clutch periodically at Mycroft’s shoulders.

Mycroft takes him in deeper, swirling his tongue as his mouth slides up and down the shaft. He’s always enjoyed oral, both giving and receiving, and wants this to be memorable for Sherlock’s sake. He can feel Sherlock trembling, struggling not to thrust. Mycroft encourages him gently, pulling Sherlock towards him and taking him in deeper. The sounds Sherlock is making are incredible – soft, guttural moans that send fresh pulses of blood to Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft runs a sweat-slick finger along Sherlock’s perineum, rubbing firmly, and then Sherlock is fucking his mouth in earnest, his cries taking on an edge of desperation.

 _Mycroft… please… oh, I can’t, I can’t_ and Sherlock is convulsing, spilling into his mouth as Mycroft swallows him down. He stays like that, letting Sherlock soften in his mouth, feeling the smaller diminishing pulses on his tongue. Then he pulls away and looks up at Sherlock, smiling, intending to kiss him.

Almost immediately, Sherlock falls into his arms, curling into a tight ball.

“Sherlock… Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Mycroft reaches out frantically to embrace him, hold him close. Sherlock shakes his head violently and hides his face against Mycroft’s chest until his breathing finally slows.

“Nothing,” he says at last, turning his face towards Mycroft. He scrubs at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “It was just… nothing…”

Mycroft nods, but remains troubled. Perhaps this has been a terrible idea, after all. He doesn’t understand, has never seen that reaction in any of his lovers. However, Sherlock seems unwilling to discuss it any further, so Mycroft draws his robe back around himself and does what any Englishman would do in an uncertain situation.

He gets up and makes tea.


	8. 1999

They spend the rest of the afternoon in idleness – reading and talking and watching the sun move slowly over the lake. Mycroft lays out a cold dinner of bread, fruit, a small platter of meats and cheese, and they eat out on the terrace as an occasional bird circles overhead, curious, but fearful. Even at seven o’clock in the evening it’s as bright as a winter’s afternoon. Afterwards, they go out on the lake again, but in the rowboat this time, taking a rug and the remains of the bottle of wine.

Sherlock seems to have recovered from whatever possessed him, and is finally dressed in the clothes Mycroft laid out on the bed earlier – black trousers and a deep purple shirt that brings out his eyes, open at the throat. The beauty of the lake pales into insignificance behind him. The currents are gentle, and after rowing out a little way, they let the boat drift. Mycroft arranges the rug in the stern, and Sherlock manoeuvres himself down carefully beside him. They recline side by side, sharing the occasional kiss, more intoxicating than the wine.

“I saw you with him,” Sherlock says, out of nowhere, “that summer.” The sun is finally fading, staining the edges of the hills around them.

Something in his tone brings Mycroft’s attention into sharp focus. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock looks down into the dregs of his wine glass, swirling the liquid fretfully. “The one you brought home from university. Small, dark-haired. Edward.” His mouth twists in distaste.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “As I recall, he spent a week or two with us every July.”

Mycroft’s own memories of Edward are pleasant, but not particularly fond. While brilliant in his own way, Edward had been extraordinarily lazy, prone to sleeping in rather than attending lectures. It had been a simple trade-off: Mycroft’s near-perfect recollection of course material in exchange for flattering words and frequent blow jobs. Edward had a rather sly, simpering manner, but a mouth that could get him out of all manner of trouble – in one way or another. After three years they had both graduated with Firsts, then parted amicably enough.

“The first summer. I was twelve.”

Mycroft frowns, unable to recall any particular incident that might prompt such a revelation. Sherlock had often been _around_ , of course, on his own school holidays, but there was nothing notable about that.

“By the oak at the bottom of the garden,” Sherlock continues, with increasing irritation. “You’d been having a picnic, I think. The checked rug was on the ground. So was Edward. On his knees.”

There’s only one thing Sherlock can mean, but it’s impossible.

“But you were out with Mummy and Daddy!” Mycroft protests. “You’d all gone into town. The nursery, I think, for some shrubs.”

“We got back early, because I didn’t want to have lunch. And Mummy said not to go down after you, but I was bored. And I wanted to show you the pallet of azaleas.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t understand, at first, what you were doing,” Sherlock says, a little defensively. “I knew about sex, of course, but it wasn’t like anything I’d ever read about in books. But the way you looked… I thought, it wasn’t _fair_ , I knew you better than anybody, and I’d never seen you like that. As though nothing else in the world mattered but him, and what he was doing. And when you came, I…” Sherlock makes a helpless gesture towards himself that Mycroft unfortunately understands all too well. “I didn’t know quite what had happened, either. Not really. Only later, when I did… you were still the only thing I thought about when I did it.”

Mycroft stares at him, stricken. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You were never meant to see… you know I would never have…”

“Of course not. Obviously.” Sherlock gives a dismissive shake of his head. “But I think… maybe that was where it began.”

“That’s why you always hated him so much. Even though he’d been nothing but cordial to you.”

Sherlock nods.

“And you… that was when you stopped hugging or touching me,” Mycroft says. ”It was that summer, when you were nearly a teenager. I thought you just suddenly felt yourself too old for it.”

“I thought that somehow you might realise… that I’d seen you. How I felt.”

“So it _was_ something I did, after all.”

“Stop it, Mycroft. It wasn’t anything you meant to happen, and besides, there’s precious little you can do about it now. I just wanted to explain. I did try, for a while, to see in other people what you did, but it was always you. It’s only ever been you.”

He leans over to kiss Mycroft while the dusk fades slowly around them.

When they return to the cottage, Mycroft tidies away while Sherlock disappears to attend to their mutually agreed preparations. He puts the leftovers in the fridge and fills the tiny dishwasher while contemplating Sherlock’s admission. Sherlock seems relieved to have got the matter off his chest, but Mycroft’s conscience is weighing upon him more heavily than ever. Perhaps if he’d been harsher with Sherlock, far earlier, Sherlock would have been able to transfer his attentions to someone else, someone more suitable, and Mycroft would have never needed to admit to his own desires. They might have been almost… normal. Mycroft wouldn’t be here, now, turning off the lights, his heart already beating faster as he pads up the stairs in his bare feet. Still, Sherlock is right. It doesn’t change anything now.

In the bedroom, Sherlock is already naked, lying in an elegant sprawl atop the sheets. The overhead lights have been dimmed, and the last rays of sunlight glimmer off the lake through the large picture window. Mycroft stops beside the bed, his breath catching in his throat.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock says, propping himself up on one elbow. He regards Mycroft’s stillness with an edge of curiosity. It’s clear he doesn’t know, has never fully understood, how much Mycroft longs to touch him, to indulge every base fantasy he might ever have had.

Slowly, Mycroft begins unbuttoning his shirt, and Sherlock shuffles over on his knees to help him undress. Sherlock’s hands go to the button of his trousers, and fondle him with obscene familiarity as Mycroft struggles out of the remainder of his clothing. Then in a sudden, sweeping rush, Mycroft is pressing Sherlock down onto the bed with the weight of his body, struggling for as much contact with Sherlock’s skin as humanly possible. Sherlock smells of soap and sweat. Their legs intertwine as Mycroft pushes their hips together, wrapping an arm behind Sherlock’s head to kiss him over and over again. Sherlock arches beneath him in surrender.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock gasps.

“Yes.”

He kisses his way down Sherlock’s body, far too quickly, stopping only to take Sherlock’s cock briefly into his mouth. Sherlock groans and whimpers as Mycroft sucks him lightly, sliding a pillow beneath him to lift his hips. Mycroft pushes Sherlock’s legs up and apart, licking a long line down his perineum, and then delicately touches his tongue to Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock is suddenly still, although his chest heaves, and the muscles in his thighs are trembling. As Mycroft pushes deeper, tonguing him in earnest, Sherlock’s moans intensify, his hands clutching at the sheets.

 _Mycroft, no, oh, fuck_ , and every sound adds new fuel to Mycroft’s arousal. He stops, lets Sherlock catch his breath, while he retrieves the lubricant from the bedside table and gives himself a few light strokes, just so he can focus. Sherlock watches him intently from the bed, his eyes dark.

He begins preparing Sherlock with gentle fingers, aware of how tight Sherlock is, how tense. He hasn’t asked the full extent of Sherlock’s sexual history, only that he’s “clean”, health-wise, and that he’s willing to take Mycroft’s word as long as Mycroft is willing to take his. That had been the end of the matter. Mycroft doesn’t really want to know anything more. However, it’s clear Sherlock isn’t entirely in tune with his own body, and several times Mycroft has to remind him to keep breathing, relax, push. He strokes Sherlock’s prostate lightly, experimentally, but the sensation proves too much for Sherlock, and he begs Mycroft to stop.

Eventually, Sherlock becomes impatient, pushing Mycroft’s hands away. It will be easier if Sherlock is on top of him, Mycroft suggests, more in control.

“No,” Sherlock says, with surprising firmness. “Just like this.”

As Mycroft slicks himself up and leans over to kiss him, the knowledge of what he’s about to do proves surprisingly dampening to his arousal. The perfection of fantasy is one thing, but here his main concern is for Sherlock’s pleasure rather than his own. He positions himself between Sherlock’s legs, and presses forward an inch, feeling Sherlock stretch to accommodate him, alert to the pain that flickers across his face. He stops as Sherlock pants and groans under him, and reaches for Sherlock’s hand, squeezes it.

“It’s all right,” he says, “We don’t have to…”

“Keep going,” Sherlock demands through gritted teeth. Mycroft can feel him willing his muscles to relax, and pushes a little deeper, grunting with the effort of holding himself in check. Sherlock is incredibly tight, and without a condom all the usual sensations seem somehow magnified. He maintains a slow, gentle pressure, and suddenly he’s there, fully sheathed in Sherlock’s body. An indescribable wash of emotion floods through him, and he realises, suddenly, what might have prompted Sherlock’s tears. Mycroft knows he can’t afford to lose control, not now, so he simply closes his eyes, and breathes through it.

“Mycroft?” He opens his eyes to find Sherlock staring up at him.

Mycroft smiles reassuringly, as best he can. “It’s been a while for me, too. Are you all right?” he asks Sherlock.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock angles his head up for a kiss, soft and slow. His legs come up to lock around Mycroft’s back, pulling him closer.

At first, Mycroft is cautious, keeping his movements short and slow, but thrusts a little harder as he feels Sherlock finally relax around him. He brushes Sherlock’s prostate, and feels Sherlock jolt with the shock of pleasure. He seems better able to tolerate it now, and Mycroft does it again to hear him moan. Sherlock’s head is thrown back against the pillow, panting with each thrust, and he urges Mycroft on between breaths.

As he feels the surge building, Mycroft stops, deliberately, and turns his attention to Sherlock, whose erection has flagged with the mix of pain and pleasure. But Sherlock abruptly stays his hand, drawing him down for another kiss.

“No, ” Sherlock says, with a tilt of his chin, and the firmness in his tone reminds Mycroft of his same insistence in that late-night phone call. _I want to hear you come._ Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on his face, and he understands, or thinks he does. He nods, swallowing, and allows himself to focus on the sensations of pushing deep into Sherlock’s body, keenly aware that he might never have the chance again. He holds Sherlock’s gaze for as long as he can before surrendering to the pure, selfish urgency of his desire. His body convulses as he comes, and then Sherlock is kissing his face, his hair, murmuring nonsense as Mycroft groans helplessly against him.

He holds himself in place above Sherlock, still breathing hard, then pulls out and flips onto his side. Sherlock is up an an instant, and pushes Mycroft onto his back to straddle him. He grinds himself against Mycroft’s pelvis, sweat and semen slicking his path, and quickly strokes himself back to full arousal. Mycroft watches in fascination as his hand moves faster on his cock, sweat glistening on his lip, once again pushing away Mycroft’s hands. He comes hard over Mycroft’s belly and chest, a fierce light in his eyes.

Freshly showered once more, Mycroft curls naked with Sherlock under the covers, and listens as his breathing softens and slows. He looks out at the blackness of the sky and thinks of late night visits and bedtime stories. Of pirates and fairy tales. _Once upon a time, there were two brothers who loved each other very much_ …

He knows it’s only a fantasy, but he still sleeps better than he has in years.

When he wakes, Sherlock is a vision in the morning light, albeit one snoring gently with his mouth open. They will return to London today, and thoughts of the future are already beginning to intrude. Mycroft has left his phone and laptop in the safe at home, but it was a difficult decision to make – he hopes no-one important will be assassinated or overthrown while he’s away. In the coldest depths of his heart, Mycroft knows that this weekend with Sherlock is just another deal to be honoured in order to remove one more potential threat to his career. A precaution to ensure Sherlock will no longer tempt him, or interfere in his plans. Much as Mycroft despises himself for being able to think this way, the truth of it remains.

He tucks the thoughts hurriedly away as Sherlock rolls over towards him and opens his eyes. Mycroft reaches for him, smiling. Time enough for all that later. They still have a few hours left.


	9. 2000

The offices of CMGE occupy an eight-storey cube of glass and steel, squatting on the banks of the Thames like an monstrous bullfrog, complete with two penthouse balconies that resemble protruding eyes. Mycroft climbs the shallow flight of stairs, and goes through a double set of sliding doors into the marble lobby. Before he even reaches the reception desk, a blonde Amazon in a royal blue sheath appears from a side entryway, her high heels clacking imperiously across the floor towards him.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft glances at her in surprise before noticing the small, unflattering photograph of himself attached to the front page of her clipboard. He nods in acknowledgement. She does not introduce herself, but extends her hand and offers a dutiful smile precisely calculated, he suspects, to accord with the degree of importance her boss has assigned to this meeting. Mycroft has understood from the beginning that it’s Lord Caldwell, and not his _protégé_ , who is the true object of attention here.

“If you’ll come with me, please?”

Security at the building appears not just tight, but verging on paranoid. Apart from multiple security cameras, three receptionists and the two armed guards in the lobby, all workers and visitors must pass through keycarded barriers simply to reach the lifts. Mycroft does not receive his own card, but is ushered through a wide gate using the Amazon’s red-bordered one, noticeably different from the plain white photo IDs used by passing workers. Past the bank of lifts there’s another wall that holds a single glass door, with its own pair of armed guards, and requires the keycard again, plus a palm print to activate the lifts. Mycroft has visited Downing Street twice in the past two years, but feels that they could probably learn something from CMGE’s procedures.

The seventh floor lobby has sleek Noguchi coffee tables, leather armchairs, and a sweeping view of the Thames. Here the Amazon leaves him to the receptionist, who graces him with a much warmer smile, advising him that Mr Magnussen “won’t be long”. Mycroft takes a seat and watches the passing river traffic, wondering yet again why he’s been summoned. Technically, it’s a polite request, but Mycroft is sensitive to the gradations of power, and aware that Magnussen’s reach far outweighs Caldwell’s on an international scale. While the Committee comprises only British citizens, as a security consideration, it is still subject to pressure from foreign nationals like Magnussen, just as its members in turn exert their own individual influence overseas.

Very likely, though, it’s nothing to do with politics at all, but Caldwell’s recent decision to retire from the newspaper business, leaving _The Daily Herald_ and _Mercury_ mastheads up for sale. Murdoch, Magnussen, and Rothermere have all professed interest, eager to consolidate their holds on the British market, but their tenders are still on the table. It’s a cut-throat business, and only to be expected that Magnussen should want to exert whatever influence he can on the decision. What is much more surprising is that he should know Mycroft’s name at all, let alone realise the extent of his influence on Caldwell. Mycroft has always understood the meaning of _discretion_.

“Mr Magnussen will see you now.” It’s eight past the hour, which is within acceptable limits, Mycroft supposes. He has no doubt that the time he’s been kept waiting, like the Amazon’s smile, has been precisely calibrated to his importance, or lack thereof.

Mycroft is left to show himself into Magnussen’s office. It’s easily five times the size of the waiting room, with Magnussen’s desk at the far end. There's a glass conference table, a smaller cluster of armchairs, and a few ornaments, the most striking an abstract steel sculpture of sweeping curves, but the space still feels barely utilised. Three flat-panel plasma displays are mounted along the wall, but all are currently switched off, and there are none of the framed "trophies" - newspaper headlines, photographs, diplomas - that might be typically found in such surroundings. Magnussen is clearly not the kind to require constant reminders of his successes. As Mycroft traverses the long stretch of carpet towards him, he feels like a favoured minister, perhaps, seeking audience with the king. Even though Magnussen is only in his mid-thirties, barely five years older than Mycroft, the imbalance between them is considerable. While Mycroft’s influence has increased enormously in the past few years, Magnussen currently far exceeds him in both wealth and power.

“Mr Holmes, so pleased you could make it,” Magnussen says, without apology, without even rising from his seat. The photos Mycroft has seen do not fully capture the carved lines of his features, the cold flatness of his smile. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and Mycroft sits without comment or acknowledgement. He’s unperturbed by Magnussen’s rudeness, seeing the power play for what it is, but notes it as a point of interest.

“Lord Caldwell’s newspapers,” Magnussen continues, without preamble. ”I want them.”

“I’m aware,” Mycroft says, maintaining a bland composure. “As do several others.”

“Ah, but now I have the advantage.” Magnussen leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, and pins Mycroft in his gaze. “Because you, I think, can help me to get them.”

“And what would make you think that?”

Abruptly, Magnussen straightens up, sits back, and claps his hands together. “But where are my manners? I apologise. I am sometimes a little too eager to come to the point.” He presses a button on the intercom. “Mr Holmes will have tea now – Darjeeling, black, no sugar. I will have the same.”

Magnussen’s theatrics are clearly designed to impress, but no less effective for that. It’s clear he’s spent as much time researching Mycroft as Mycroft has spent researching him. Considering the difference in their respective standings, it’s more worrying than flattering.

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Mycroft says.

“Nonsense. I insist. Now, you were asking exactly why I thought you might be able to help me persuade Lord Caldwell to sell me his newspapers. That’s very simple. I understand that you and he have developed a very _close_ relationship over this past year or two.”

Mycroft keeps his face carefully neutral. Magnussen doesn’t necessarily know a thing; Caldwell has a known predilection for much younger men, and it’s not a difficult leap to predict Mycroft might be amongst them.

“Lord Caldwell has been very supportive of my career.”

“Ah, but it’s more than that, isn’t it Mr Holmes?” Magnussen smiles his thin smile. “Taking you to all his little meetings, helping find you that _classified_ position you now hold. Showing you the finer things in life. You currently have his ear, as the expression goes. As well as his penis. Tell me, which one are you enjoying more?”

If there were a time for sputtering outrage, this would be it, but Mycroft will not be drawn by mere speculation. His return smile is equally wintry.

“Perhaps we should return to the question of why you would expect me to plead in your favour?” Mycroft says. “Under the circumstances.”

Magnussen tilts his head and peers at Mycroft – _low-degree myopia,_ Mycroft thinks – as though seeing him for the first time. “Very good, Mr Holmes,” he says, as though conceding a move in chess. He glances away as a side door opens, admitting a petite woman carrying a teapot and two delicate cups and saucers upon a silver tray. Despite the menial task, her outfit, grooming and lacquered fingernails suggest she’s a PA rather than catering staff. She sets her burden on the desk and disappears as silently as she came, closing the door behind her. “But first, the tea.”

It will do Mycroft no good to protest – again – so he sits in silence as Magnussen pours tea for both of them. He leans over to place Mycroft’s cup in front of him and then sits back in his chair to sip at his own, making a small noise of displeasure. He sets the cup down.

“I really think I prefer coffee,” he says, watching Mycroft again.

Mycroft re-evaluates his position. Magnussen is undoubtedly a powerful man, but has limited influence over those Mycroft most needs to impress. He needs the British government’s blessing to run his business every bit as much as they need his contribution to the economy. And right now, he requires Mycroft’s help to influence Caldwell, while Mycroft needs nothing from him at all. Therefore, there’s no reason to tolerate the situation further.

“If that’s all,” Mycroft says, standing, leaving his cup untouched. “I will pass on your regards to Lord Caldwell. Thank you for the tea.”

Magnussen smiles up at him, looking genuinely delighted. “Wonderful,” he says. “I was wondering when we would come to the point.”

He rises from his chair and strolls around the desk to perch beside Mycroft, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Up close, he smells somehow fruity, repulsive, making Mycroft want to hold his breath, but he only nods and turns away. Magnussen immediately catches hold of his wrist. His grip is moist and clammy, but unyieldingly strong.

“Do sit down, please. I believe you will be very interested in what I have to say.”

Unpleasant as the man is, the malicious confidence in his tone suggests that he is very likely correct. Slowly, Mycroft sits, resisting the urge to rub at his wrist when Magnussen releases it. While Mycroft generally disdains the physical, some small, dark part of him yearns to grab Magnussen’s head and smash his face repeatedly into the wood of his own desk. There’s something about him that triggers an almost primal loathing.

“You see, I deal in communications,” Magnussen says. “Meaning information. And the problem with Lord Caldwell is that he has very little to hide. Certainly there is his ongoing pursuit of younger men, but a secret is hardly a secret when everyone has known about his perverse habits for years, including his wife. If they were made public knowledge, his family would, at most, suffer a little embarrassment. It would not substantially affect his position, his standing, or his fortune.”

“But you, Mr Holmes…” Magnussen runs his hand slowly down Mycroft’s cheek, and Mycroft flinches before he can stop himself. Magnussen’s fingers leave a repellent trail of dampness on his skin. “You still have everything to lose.”

All Mycroft’s instincts tell him to flee. At the same time, he needs to know exactly what game Magnussen is playing. He casts his mind swiftly back through his past, but he’s never touched drugs or prostitutes, has never been subject to so much as a speeding fine. His sexuality is still a disadvantage in some respects, but it isn’t exactly a secret. As it happens, the civil service is rife with those of a _certain disposition_. The only thing he can think of is… unthinkable.

“He is very pretty, isn’t he?” Magnussen says, with obvious pleasure. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Your little baby brother. He is, I believe – seven years younger than you? That’s quite the difference. He would only have been a small, innocent child, when you were already a teenager with, perhaps, certain unwholesome… desires.” He waggles a finger in Mycroft’s face. “Tut, tut, tut.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft manages, but his heart is already racing.

“You most certainly do. Otherwise you would have left my office already, raving in disgust. But you stay, don’t you? Because now you need to find out – How does he know? How _much_ does he know?”

Magnussen leans forward from his perch on the desk, places a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and brings his face close to Mycroft’s ear. “I want to hear it, Mycroft,” he says softly, drawing out the words in his lilting, mocking accent. “I – want – to – hear – you – _come_.”

Ice water courses down Mycroft’s spine even as his face flushes with heat. His _phone_. How could Magnussen have had access to his _phone_? What else has he heard? Who else knows? Does Caldwell?

“I’ve been watching you for a while, Mr Holmes,” Magnussen says. “I find it useful in my line of work to know certain things about certain people, such as those in Lord Caldwell’s employ. You never know when one of them might prove valuable. I must say that very little surprises me any more. But you… you have indeed surprised me.” Magnussen picks up Mycroft’s untouched cup, stirs the liquid gently with his pinkie finger, and then holds it out to him. “You’ve neglected your tea.”

Mycroft sips obediently, grimacing, then places the cup back on the table. The tea is strongly flavoured, but he still fancies he can taste the traces of Magnussen’s sweat.

“Now, I know what you must be thinking,” Magnussen continues. “The recording of that particular phone call is disturbing, and certainly incriminating, but nothing it contains is technically illegal. The pictures, on the other hand…” He flips open a folder on his desk and extracts four 8”x10” photographs, pushing them into Mycroft’s shaking hands.

All four are from their weekend away in Cumbria, and have obviously been taken using a long lens positioned somewhere on the heavily wooded hillside opposite the cottage. The first shows him kissing Sherlock on the outside deck, fully clothed, their faces clearly visible. In the next, Sherlock is climbing back onto the jetty naked after their swim, with Mycroft watching from the water. The third is of relatively poor quality due to the shadows cast by the drapes, but Sherlock’s curls can be glimpsed from somewhere down between Mycroft’s legs. The last and most damning shows Mycroft on top of Sherlock in the upstairs bedroom, the light levels adjusted for maximum contrast. It shows only Mycroft’s body and the back of his head, but Sherlock’s face is in focus, apparently grimacing in pain. In all of them, Sherlock looks breathtakingly young and beautiful. Taken together, they clearly convey the image of Mycroft as heartless, conscienceless predator.

“I have many more, of course. Not that I need them.” Magnussen retrieves the photos and tucks them safely away. Mycroft’s hands are clenched so tightly his nails dig into his skin.

“You realise that there is no guarantee I can influence Lord Caldwell’s decision in your favour,” he says at last. “And if he should decide against you, what then? You expose… this? To what end? I’m not exactly a public figure.”

“Oh, I had no intention of distributing them _publicly_. Just to a select few. Your dear, ageing parents, for one. And your mentor, Lord Caldwell. How would he and the others in Her Majesty’s Service react to learning of your, shall we say, _unusual_ tastes? I doubt you’d have much of a career left, after that.”

Unbelievable that it should happen now, over a year after his bargain with Sherlock was concluded. Thirteen months of being able to focus on his career, on his growing intimacy with Caldwell, without the fear of Sherlock tempting him into ruin. After that weekend away, Sherlock’s calls and texts had grown increasingly infrequent, their tone increasingly hostile, before trailing off completely. At first, Mycroft had tried to resist the complete breakdown of their relationship, but realised that it was Sherlock’s way of dealing with their agreement, and let him go. It’s taken its toll on both of them – despite Mummy’s best efforts, he’s only seen Sherlock once, at Christmas, where they had barely sat down to dinner before Sherlock had stormed off after some imagined slight. But it was at least been some consolation that the threat Sherlock had been dealt with. Now, as Mycroft gazes at the smoking wreck of his ambitions, he realises he’s brought destruction upon himself after all.

“However...” Magnussen is smiling again, more unpleasant than ever. “I think you underestimate me, Mr Holmes. I’m not an unreasonable man, and have no interest in ruining someone who may yet prove useful to me in the longer term. And judging from what I have seen today, I predict that you may prove _particularly_ useful in future. If indeed, you have one. So I propose a deal.”

Mycroft has already resolved to have the security of his current phone thoroughly evaluated, and to further ensure that in all other ways Magnussen is denied any more usable data. But he can do nothing about what Magnussen already knows. Understanding that he is no position to argue, Mycroft remains silent, acquiescent, and Magnussen nods his approval.

“You are a sensible man, I see. Very good. All I ask at this point is that you try. Tell Lord Caldwell that you have spoken with me, and that you _strongly support_ my bid for his newspapers. He may ask some awkward questions, but I’m sure you can handle him. And you may judge for yourself, perhaps, how much he truly values your opinions. Then afterwards…” Magnussen shrugs his shoulders. “Who knows? Perhaps I may ask from you a small favour here, or an introduction there, but nothing too unreasonable. No sense in killing the golden goose, as they say. And if you ask nicely enough, you may in turn find certain sections of the media remarkably sympathetic to your personal causes. Always a great help to a government, I find. I can help you achieve your ambitions, Mr Holmes, and as long as you observe my interests along the way, I assure you no one else need ever know about your… little indiscretions. I take it we are agreed?”

He extends a hand to Mycroft in a parody of good faith. Mycroft stands up, unclenches his own hand and shakes it anyway. Afterwards, he wipes his palm on his suit trousers, no longer caring whether Magnussen notices. It only seems to amuse him, anyway.

“Good day, Mr Holmes. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

***

Two days later, Lord Caldwell takes him to dinner at the newly-opened Tate Modern, and Mycroft savours the view across the Thames to St Paul’s almost as much as the food. They eat companionably, like businessmen, and cautiously discuss the latest scandal – a second leaked memo condemning the UK’s refusal to adopt the Euro – but stay well away from confidential matters. Caldwell’s newspapers have covered the subject along with the rest, but perhaps a little less stridently than most. Privately, Caldwell supports Blair’s decision. As they finish up with port, Caldwell reaches under the table to place his hand on Mycroft’s knee, and Mycroft smiles at him. He’s aware that Caldwell is almost twice his age – older than Mycroft’s own father, in fact – but compared with what he’s been through with Sherlock, the potential social consequences bother him not at all.

Afterwards, Caldwell’s driver takes them to the private rooms Caldwell keeps above his gentlemen’s club, and they shower together in the oversized bathroom, sharing lingering kisses as the water courses around them. At sixty-two, Caldwell’s body has lost the smoothness of youth, but his muscles are still firm from tennis and polo, and Mycroft has no hesitation in returning his caresses, running his hands over Caldwell’s lightly tanned skin. He would appear to spend considerably more time outdoors than Mycroft does.

They wrestle together a little on the crisp white sheets, playfully fighting for dominance. Caldwell wins, as he always does, pinning Mycroft down by sheer strength and bulk. While two inches shorter than Mycroft, his broad, heavyset build always makes Mycroft feel oddly delicate beside him. He bends over Mycroft, kissing him slowly, paying particular attention to his neck and chest, while Mycroft basks in his genuine appreciation. In Caldwell’s presence he feels secure in his youth and attractiveness, such as it is, with none of the self-consciousness he’s had with lovers he perceived as being far better looking than himself. He touches Caldwell with abandon, reaching down to caress him, bringing him to hardness with long, firm strokes.

“Lovely, lovely,” Caldwell murmurs, as Mycroft arches up to kiss him.

When Caldwell pulls away, Mycroft goes up on his hands and knees, and shivers as Caldwell stretches him with slick, deft fingers. Caldwell stops to put on a condom, and Mycroft cranes his neck back for a kiss before Caldwell begins pushing into him, slow and steady. Mycroft enjoys the stretch and burn of it, the sense of surrender. The rhythm of Caldwell’s thrusts is soothing, and Mycroft shuts his eyes and floats, lost in sensation, letting Caldwell use his body as he pleases. It’s a brief respite from thought, from ambition, from responsibilities. Caldwell’s thrusts become faster, harder, until he comes with a jerk of his hips and a soft groan, slumping over Mycroft’s body. Only then does Mycroft wrap his hand around his own cock and stroke himself to orgasm.

Physical pleasantries over, they talk late into the night and early morning. Caldwell drinks whisky in bed, propped up by pillows, Glenmorangie over ice. Mycroft joins him, feeling thoroughly decadent. Caldwell treats him with the same careless affection he might lavish on one of his horses, petting him from time to time, talking to himself as much as to Mycroft. From him Mycroft has absorbed a wealth of detail about the aristocracy that will serve him well in future – everything from the handling of servants and investments to to the decades-old rivalries and tensions between various families. Caldwell answers his questions and dispenses advice in the kindly, slightly patronising manner of his breed.

Today, Mycroft intends to bring up the subject of Magnussen at some opportune moment, but Caldwell saves him the trouble. The sale of his newspapers obviously weighs heavy on his mind – at present, his publishing company remains under private ownership, so the decision will be entirely his to make.

“So, what exactly did Charles want with you, then?” Caldwell asks, his deep brown eyes suddenly alert. It reminds Mycroft that for all his personal indulgences, Caldwell is no fool. The members of the Committee can be swift and brutal in turning on their own, as evidenced by the fate of Simon Rawsthorne after his indiscreet comments over the death of Princess Diana.

“Much as you expected – looking to press his suit by any means possible.”

“And did he succeed?”

Mycroft hesitates. “He was certainly very… persuasive.”

“Really?” Caldwell studies his face and takes another sip of whisky, slow and deliberate. “So I take it you’re in favour of me selling to him? Rather than Murdoch or Rothermere?”

“He said… he said you would understand.”

“Oh, I do.“ Caldwell sets his glass down on the side table, and rolls back towards Mycroft, propping himself up on one elbow. “So, what have you done?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been frustrating Charles for years, you know. He has half the British government in his pocket, but I’ve always been terribly indiscreet about my… indiscretions.” He smiles. “Even with Vera, bless her, she knew exactly what she was getting into. All she ever wanted was children and money and a quiet life, and she’s got them. My children stay out of trouble, I pay my taxes, and I never get involved in something without knowing how to get out of it. Which leaves him little to work with, odious fellow that he is. Frankly, I didn’t think he’d fare much better with you. So, what is it? Drug habit? Surely not. You wouldn’t risk damaging your intellect like that. Hit-and-run? Some unfortunate incident at university?”

Mycroft shakes his head, but says nothing.

“It’s nothing involving _children_ , is it, Mycroft?” Caldwell’s face abruptly hardens. “Because in that case you’ll get no support from me.”

“God, no! Nothing like that.”

“No, no, I suppose not. Under the circumstances. But one never knows.” Caldwell shakes his head, obviously remembering some unfortunate past revelation. “But come now, how bad can it be?”

“I can’t,” Mycroft says, falling back on his time-honoured tactic of partial truth. “It… it involves someone else.” It’s a good explanation, one that will make him look principled while playing on Caldwell’s own vanities.

“Oh, I see.” The speculative look is back in Caldwell’s eyes. “Not everyone is married to someone quite so _understanding_ , is that right? It was Norwich, wasn’t it? No one can be _that_ aggressively heterosexual, even if he did win a Blue in rugby.”

“I’m afraid I really can’t say.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Caldwell nods, apparently satisfied. “Well, I won’t pry too much. If Charles wants my little newspapers so badly that he sends you to campaign on his behalf, I’ll tell him to add an extra 10% to his proposal, which is still entirely fair and reasonable, and tell him not to try anything like it again in future. All right?”

“Thank you… David. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Caldwell says, but they both understand it as another favour Mycroft owes, to be returned at some unspecified date. “All right, that’s settled, then. I suppose this calls for a celebration.”

He kisses Mycroft, slow and deep, then guides him down between his legs so Mycroft can begin demonstrating his gratitude once more.

***

Almost a month later, Mycroft arrives at work to find a note on his desk in a plain white envelope, together with a copy of the morning’s _Daily Herald_ , now owned by Magnussen. The envelope bears Mycroft’s name, but no stamp _._ He approaches it cautiously, even though anyone with such free access to his office has already had the opportunity to do him far more harm than passing notes. Inside is a single sheet of expensive white wove paper, laser-printed.

 _Your co-operation has been noted_.

The piece of paper is featureless, anonymous, but his memory supplies the sickening scent of Magnussen’s cologne, together with the fantasy of slamming the man’s skull repeatedly into his desk. One day, Mycroft may be in a position to do something about Magnussen and his threats, but right now he must accept the way things are. Mycroft takes a deep breath, composing himself, then tears the note into tiny pieces and throws them in the bin.


	10. 2002

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm resisting the urge to apologise, but about here is where you get to watch me wandering farther and farther out of my comfort zone as I attempt to make this fic vaguely canon-compliant. Bloody Mofftiss *g*

Mycroft is in New York when he receives the call.

Later, he will wonder if he made the right decision, three years ago, to let his relationship with Sherlock dwindle away to nothing. Perhaps he’d owed it to Sherlock to maintain his brotherly duties – to be calm, compassionate, and understanding in the face of all provocation. But he’d tried all of that for years, and it had only led to misery. And after their weekend away, Sherlock had become so hostile, so unremittingly rude, that Mycroft had accepted it was easier for both of them to have as little to do with each other as possible. Magnussen’s threats had only cemented that decision.

In some ways, his break with Sherlock has freed him to do more than he ever thought possible. A few months after the sale of Lord Caldwell’s newspapers, Mycroft had transferred to MI-6, in the hopes that broadening his focus beyond the UK would benefit his career, and that the potential travel involved might remove him somewhat from Magnussen’s loathsome influence. His roles primarily involve co-ordination and analysis, not fieldwork, but he still receives the same basic training as his agents. Only by fully understanding their capabilities and limitations can he deploy them most effectively. The experience involved far more physical education than he’d have liked, but proved interesting in its own way. Since then he’s worked in Sofia, Hong Kong, and now New York, which he’s found quite the least civilised of the three.

His cover position is with the British Consulate General, an establishment that at least replicates some of the comforts of home. Tea, biscuits, accents. He’s in his office when his mobile buzzes – or as his erstwhile hosts would have it, his _cell_ – and he answers it with resignation. Despite repeated reminders, his mother has yet to understand the concept of an emergency, as opposed to wanting to know when he’ll next be back in London, or letting him know his father has a dreadful cold. More than once, he’s been tempted to put her number on permanent diversion to his assistant, except he knows he’ll hear no end of it should she find out. At least the office is quiet; it’s after seven pm, and most of the staff have gone home.

In the split-second before his mother responds, Mycroft realises that the time difference means it’s past midnight in London, and his parents usually retire by ten. Maybe this time it really _is_ an emergency.

“Mycroft? Mycroft, is that you?” His mother’s voice has that peculiar cadence he associates with her long-distance calls, as though she feels she has to speak loudly and clearly so that her voice will carry across the Atlantic. But today, it’s more than that – she sounds strained, close to tears, which puts him on instant alert. The last time she sounded like that was when grandfather died, twelve years ago. Apprehension sweeps over him.

“What’s happened?”

“Oh, I _knew_ Sherlock was in some kind of trouble, but I would never have _dreamed_ …”

From her tone Mycroft can tell that Sherlock is alive, at least, but not much more. “Mummy. Is he _all right_?”

“He… a policeman found him in time. In a park in Brixton. He’s in hospital now.”

“Was he assaulted?”

“No, he was...” She hesitates, then rushes forward. “He’d… He’d taken… oh, a whole cocktail of things, apparently. I couldn’t believe it at first, I said, my boy would never get into _drugs_ , he’s far too intelligent. But from what the doctor said, it’s clearly been going on for a while. And the way he looked… Mikey, you didn’t _know_ he’d been… did you?”

There’s no real accusation in her words – she’s trying to come to terms with the situation, not blaming him. Nevertheless, Mycroft is silent, remembering a long ago, late night phone call. He had meant to look more deeply into the effects of recreational drugs and their interactions, but Sherlock had never done anything like it again, and it had simply slipped off his list of priorities.

“No, I had no idea. You’re aware we haven’t exactly been on good terms…”

“Yes. But I hoped, maybe… “

“I’m sorry.”

“We hadn’t seen him for months, ourselves, not in person, anyway, but he’d text or call every now and then, and we thought he was just… busy. Like he always is, up to something or other. Like the pair of you, really. But when we got to the hospital… he looked terrible. Like one of those… as though he’d been living on the streets. The doctor said…" she hesitates again, lowering her voice "... it might have been deliberate. He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

The thought sends a chill of fear through Mycroft that he simply can’t afford right now. Someone has to keep a cool head, to focus on the practicalities. He collects himself and _thinks_.

“All right, Mummy.” he says. “Listen to me. If he’s in hospital, he ought to be all right for now. You need to watch him as best you can, but I can contact some people in London to track him down if he tries to disappear. Then if he really _does_ have a problem, he needs to go straight into a decent rehabilitation facility, and then be monitored from there. Do you need me to help you find one?” He waits, but the silence extends to such a length that he fears he may have lost the connection entirely. “Mummy?”

“How can you be so calm about this? Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s your brother! He almost died! Don’t you _care_ what happens to him?”

“I just _said_ I’d help get him into a treatment program…”

“Yes, like he was some distant acquaintance of yours who’d got himself into a bit of trouble!”

Mycroft thinks, as always, _Calm down, Mummy_. “I fail to see what difference that should make in resolving the situation.”

“He’s not a _situation_ that needs to be _resolved_. He’s your _brother_.”

“I am aware. What exactly would you have me do?” He can feel the unique tension building at the base of his skull, the kind that only comes from dealing with his family. _Emotional relationships – of any kind – are weaknesses_ , he’d told Sherlock that day in the distant past, and he’d since decided his family were as much as he could handle at the best of times. “Would you prefer that I become hysterical?” _Like you_ , he does not say, but his tone implies it.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”

“I’m sorry, Mummy. I do, in fact, care about Sherlock. Very much so.” _More than you could possibly imagine._ “But what’s done is done. None of that will help him right now.”

“No. But it might have helped him _earlier_ ,” she says. “If you’d only been in his life a little more these past few years. You know how much he idolised you when he was younger. I always worried that you were born too far apart, but you always seemed to get on so well. And then, when he got older… what happened between you, Mikey? ”

Mycroft is silent. It’s not the first time she’s asked, or even the sixth, and he’s no more inclined to tell her than he ever was. “So, do you want me to help you find a facility? I’ll need the name of his admitting doctor as well.”

“I _want_ you to come straight back to London.”

“And I will, as soon as I can. But you know I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice.” Especially not when a third of his agents are currently engaged in a joint counter-terrorism exercise with the CIA. When 9/11 happened he was safely in Hong Kong, but every time he leaves the office, the gap in the New York skyline reminds him of the potential threat to British citizens. The alert level remains high in both countries. He can explain none of this to his parents, who are of only the vague belief that he’s working as a diplomat of some description. “Not over…”

“Over something so trivial, is that it?” his mother snaps, and then relents. “Please, Mikey. What if he won’t go? I don’t think you can just force someone if they refuse. Would you at least talk to him?”

“I’d be happy to, but I doubt very much he’d listen. But he’ll go. I’ll see to it.” Mycroft is already considering the variety of options at his disposal, ranging from the persuasive to the forceful, depending on how stubborn Sherlock proves to be. It would be easier if he were in London, but he’s confident he can manage what needs to be done, even from here. “You’ll have to trust me.”

To her credit, his mother doesn’t doubt him for a moment. “All right. But even if we get him in somewhere, what happens to him after that? Straight back out on the streets again, I shouldn’t wonder.” The strained quality has returned to her voice, and he can almost see his father with his hands on her shoulders, calming her. “Whether you care about him or not, he’s still your brother, and you need to help us work out what to do with him.”

Mycroft narrowly refrains from pointing out how unfair she’s being. This entire conversation rests on the fact that he can’t _stop_ himself from caring, inconvenient though it might be. But while his mother may be excessively emotional, she does have a point – Mycroft understands that unless there is sufficient incentive to alter any habitual behaviour, it will inevitably recur. All the more so if Sherlock will simply be released back into London, where he can so easily return to his old haunts. A change of environment would be best, but he can’t imagine his parents being able to keep Sherlock in Sussex for long. He could assign people to track his movements, but that would be a gross misuse of his influence, as well as being terribly indiscreet. It would have to be a last resort.

However, there is yet another option, although one that's perhaps slightly unorthodox. Mycroft thinks it through, examining his proposal for weaknesses, but in truth any issues would be easier to sort out if they were at least in the same country. It would also be a radical change of environment for Sherlock, and one far more difficult for him to escape. On top of _that_ , although he’s reluctant to admit it even to himself, he hasn’t set eyes on Sherlock for almost three years, and some small, subdued part of him desperately wants an excuse to see him again, to be sure he’s all right. Surely that’s a reasonable _brotherly_ response.

“Mycroft?”

“All right, Mummy. Here’s what we’ll do. First, we get him into a program, for as long as necessary. And after that… how would you feel about taking an extended holiday in America? I’m sure Aunt Dorothea would help you find somewhere to stay.”

He spends another ten minutes in explanations and pacifications before Mummy reluctantly lets him go. Only when he finally sets the phone down does Mycroft allow himself a moment of weakness. He leans forward on the desk, his hands steepled before him, and there’s a heaviness behind his eyes and at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down. It still doesn’t seem quite real, the idea that Sherlock could have gravitated towards something as pointless and damaging as drug-taking, that he could actually have _died_ doing something so mundane. The Sherlock he keeps in his mind is somehow pure, inviolate, an image that remains untouched even as its subject decays.

 _If only you’d been in his life a little more…_ Mycroft resents his mother’s implied accusation, but deep down he can’t help but agree with her. He can remind himself all he likes that Sherlock is an adult, entirely capable of making his own choices, and yet part of Mycroft still feels responsible. He needs to see Sherlock, to talk to him, to run to his rescue and make everything _all right again_. He hopes only that Sherlock will let him.

***

Mycroft spends Christmas day alone in his apartment on the Upper East Side. From his window the entire city appears lit up in celebration, but the sanctity of his living room contains no tree, no wreath, not so much as a scrap of tinsel. He’s accumulated a few extra boxes of biscuits, chocolates and bottles of wine from the obligatory rounds of gift-giving at the consulate, but they’re all neatly stowed away in the kitchen. He sits at his dining table reading through the latest intelligence reports on his laptop, a cup of tea by his side. Bach’s oratorio plays softly in the background, his main concession to the season.

Around mid-morning he phones his parents to wish them a merry Christmas, aware that this year they have little to celebrate. Sherlock is still in rehab – Mummy reports that he isn’t exactly overjoyed with the facility, but at least he hasn’t yet set fire to the place – and will be released mid-January. Their parents are busy seeing to the state of the house and garden, making preparations for the property to be cared for while they are gone. They will all come to New York for a week, and then to Boca Raton, where Aunt Dorothea has arranged a place for them to stay. Understandably, his father is more enthusiastic about the prospect than his mother, who has a prickly relationship with her sister-in-law at the best of times. Still, it’s only for a few weeks, until they see how the change in environment suits Sherlock, and then they can decide whether to stay on a bit longer.

On the day they fly in, Mycroft doesn’t go to the airport, but waits for his mother to phone him from their midtown hotel – his assistant has booked them a small suite with a living area large enough for an extra bed, so that Sherlock can stay in the same room. His mother sounds happy enough, under the circumstances: she’s looking forward to seeing Mycroft; there was little bit of turbulence on the flight, but nothing too alarming; Sherlock sat by the window and said little to anyone the entire time.

Mycroft listens with a sense of foreboding – since his mother’s first frantic phone call two months ago, Mycroft has been willing, even anxious, to comply with her request that they talk, but Sherlock has so far refused. He’d gone into the rehab program before Mycroft could make it back home, and refused all personal visits. Mycroft’s texts, calls, and emails have all likewise gone unanswered. However, Sherlock has at least agreed to stop over in New York – Mycroft suspects Mummy has exercised her own substantial powers of persuasion – so they won’t be able to avoid each other for much longer.

Mycroft takes an embassy car to the hotel, letting his driver battle the early evening traffic while he finishes up some last-minute reading. Mummy is already waiting in the lobby, a brash overabundance of gilt and marble, to usher him upstairs. She insists in hugging him first, which he endures, and he’s vaguely surprised, as always, by how small she is, how far he has to stoop. Every time he sees her she seems to have a few more lines in her face, a little more grey in her hair. She seems oddly relieved to see him, even though he’s been of precious little help to her over the past few months.

“How is he?” Mycroft asks, on the way to the lifts. He’s torn between longing to see Sherlock again, and fearing it.

“He’s looking ever so much better,” his mother says, in a tone that somehow suggests relief and disapproval at the same time. Mycroft wants to ask whether she thinks Sherlock will speak to him, but he doesn’t.

The suite is in the much same style as the lobby, with that peculiar combination of expensive and vulgar that hurts Mycroft’s eyes. Still, it looks comfortable enough. He greets his father warmly, but his eye is immediately drawn to Sherlock, who is standing in front of the single large window, gazing down on Park Avenue. Mycroft is keenly aware that his mother and father are watching him watching Sherlock.

Mycroft stops three feet away, and calls his name softly.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I for one would like to try out that lovely café downstairs,” Mummy pipes up, without the least attempt at subtlety. She takes her husband by the arm. “I hope a place like this knows how to brew a proper pot of tea.”

“I’m sure they do, dear.”

“Why don’t you two join us when you’ve finished catching up?”

Mycroft nods in her general direction, but Sherlock acts as though he hasn’t heard. Only when the door shuts behind them does his posture relax a fraction.

“Sherlock.”

At last Sherlock turns to face him, and Mycroft’s chest tightens painfully. After so many years Sherlock’s features seem both intimately familiar and yet a stranger’s. He actually does look quite well, as though the news of his drug use were a mistake, and he simply needed a good rest and a holiday. He’s thin but not gaunt, and his white shirt, open at the throat, displays skin that is pale ivory rather than yellow. His curls have been trimmed short and neat, which somehow bothers Mycroft most of all. But on the whole, he looks healthy enough, physically. The only real sign of his recent trials is the bleakness of his eyes, as though he is beyond caring what happens to him any more. It’s this more than anything that propels Mycroft the last step forward, although he still does no more than stand and look.

Sherlock stares at him for a full minute, but without discernible emotion or curiosity, as though Mycroft were simply _there_ , in his line of vision. It’s impossibly awkward. Mycroft realises it’s up to him to do something decisive, to _fix this_ , but if he were able to manage Sherlock, he would have done it long ago.

Desperately, Mycroft falls back on the truth. “I’ve worried about you. More than you can possibly imagine.“

Sherlock’s mouth twists, and he draws a breath, as though to speak, but no words emerge.

Mycroft is forced to try again. “Are you… all right?”

This time Sherlock shakes his head – not an answer, but a dismissal. He turns slowly back to the window. Mycroft takes another step towards him, close enough that he can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body radiating through the white shirt. He still smells of travel, that odd mix of sterile, manufactured scents, together with distinct traces of cigarette smoke. Mycroft frowns. There’s no visible ashtray in the room, nor has Mummy seen fit to mention it, but the tips of Sherlock’s fingers betray him. How little he knows of what Sherlock has become.

Near as they are, Mycroft does not touch him, and Sherlock makes no move to pull away. Over his shoulder Mycroft can see the midtown traffic far below, sluggish in the fading light, the taxis bright spots of colour amidst the black and white and grey. At street level there would be the cacophony of horns and music and shouted abuse, but here there’s nothing but the low hum of the central heating, struggling to generate warmth.

“Sherlock, please. Talk to me.”

“Why?” His voice is flat, as though it were a matter of little account.

“Because I can’t bear for us to be like this.”

“Oh, I think you’ve _borne_ it well enough.” Sherlock wheels around, stepping away from him, and only now does Mycroft glimpse the emotion simmering just beneath the surface. It’s preferable to the blankness, but not entirely reassuring. Sherlock’s gaze sharpens, sweeping him from head to foot, and Mycroft is suddenly very conscious of his own appearance – his new suit and slimmer tie, the missing pocket square, his fingernails, his haircut, the lack of wear on his shoes. “Better than ever, in fact,” Sherlock continues, with a twist of his mouth. “Ordering people around clearly suits you. So much so that I can’t imagine why after three years you’d even try pretending to care any more. Although I suppose it would _look bad_ if you ignored the plight of your pathetic, homeless junkie brother. And we couldn’t have that, could we?”

Mycroft blinks, too shocked by the stream of venom to absorb what Sherlock is saying. He struggles to process Sherlock’s anger.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he says carefully. “That it would be easier if we just… stayed away from each other entirely.”

“It was certainly easy for you.”

The years between them seem to fall away, and Mycroft is right back where he was for months after their weekend in Cumbria – staring at his phone, wondering whether to text Sherlock and be ignored, or phone and suffer another round of monosyllabic surliness. “Not easy,” he says. “Easier. For both of us. Isn’t that why you suddenly became so… rude towards me? So _hostile_?”

“And what did you expect? Knowing that the idea of fucking me was so _repellent_ to you that I had to promise never to approach you again. Before you would touch me at all.”

Sherlock’s deliberate crudeness makes him wince. That isn’t how Mycroft remembers it, not at all. “That’s really what you think.”

“What else should I think?”

“That I was trying to be a decent brother to you, for a change, letting you move on with your own life – not someone thinking only of his own selfish desires.” He’s still haunted by the memory of Magnussen’s photographs, the ones that so clearly showed his callous disregard for Sherlock’s welfare.

Sherlock snorts in disbelief. “And yet it’s all worked out nicely for you, hasn’t it, Mycroft? Look at you, so big and important now. Literally.”

It’s a low blow, even if he deserves it. Mycroft is well aware that he’s almost 30 pounds heavier than when he left London, despite the physical training. Perhaps some of it is muscle, but it’s more likely a side effect of all the lunches and dinners required in performing his “diplomatic” role, together with the return of his natural disdain for exercise. Besides, these days he doesn’t need to take off his clothes for anyone, save his doctor.

“Why are you doing this?” Mycroft feels the familiar ache starting at the base of his skull and resists the urge to rub it. “I came here to show you my… support. Not to quarrel with you.”

“Yes, your _support_. As long as it’s all talk and organisation, and not having to spend more than a week in my presence.”

Which of course is completely unjust, but Mycroft chooses to ignore it. “I arranged a practical solution.”

“You always do.” Sherlock manages to make agreement sound like an insult.

Mycroft is silent, at a loss once more. He hadn’t known what to expect, but hoped that pulling Sherlock out of his old life and bringing him back into Mycroft’s own might herald… something. He’s not sure what. Perhaps another chance at the simple fraternal relationship they ought to have had to begin with. He hadn’t expected gratitude, exactly, but it seems that none of Sherlock’s hostility has dimmed in the intervening years.

“Who else have you fucked?” Sherlock says. “Since me.”

“Don’t, Sherlock.”

“Tell me.”

It’s on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue to say _no_ , or, _that’s none of your business_ , and then he’ll walk out of the room, and out of Sherlock’s life, maybe forever. He’ll pass the gilt-trimmed café on his way out of the hotel, and his parents will exchange worried glances and return to their room, and god knows what might happen to Sherlock then, or later. Not for the first time, Mycroft thinks how much easier things would be if he could simply choose _not to care_.

Instead, he tells Sherlock what he really wants to know. “None of it was the way it was… between us. How could it be?”

“But you fucked them anyway.”

“Sometimes they were useful to me. Sometimes I wanted the company, especially when I first left London. But in the past year – there’s been no one at all.”

Light flickers in Sherlock’s eyes, and he nods, a grim gesture of approval. Mycroft glances at him, puzzled.

“Would that satisfy you?” he asks. “If I were to remain… alone?”

Sherlock shrugs. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?” But he holds Mycroft’s gaze a moment too long, and they both understand the terms that have been struck.

With that concession, Mycroft moves towards Sherlock once more. Sherlock is absolutely still, watchful, until Mycroft brings his arms up around him, and only then does he respond cautiously, in kind. His warm solidity is unutterably comforting. Mycroft exhales a long breath and holds him close as the tension in Sherlock’s body slowly eases. It’s enough. He’ll gladly trade his non-existent relationships to have Sherlock back in his life. As a brother.

“I’m far too busy for that sort of thing right now, anyway,” Mycroft says. “Now, tell me, when exactly did you take up smoking?”


	11. 2003

If Mycroft has found Christmas alone in New York to be tedious, Christmas in Boca Raton with his family is _appalling_.

Firstly, there’s the weather, which is a horrendous 27˚C, a barely tolerable temperature in summer, let alone in December. He once endured a hotter “winter” in Hong Kong, but at least the citizens there understood the concept of air-conditioning, whereas Aunt Dorothea inhumanely insists that they all sit out in the back garden for lunch. Mycroft is forced to remove his tie and roll up his shirt sleeves to avoid becoming a damp puddle on her tinsel-strewn patio. His mother is wearing a bright floral sundress, a slightly more tasteful variation on his aunt’s, while his father has set off his bow tie with a panama hat. Not to be outdone, Uncle Rudy has countered with a cravat, already wilting in the heat, and now he and it are roughly the same shade of bright red. At least Sherlock has joined Mycroft in looking dignified, if uncomfortable.

Secondly, while his immediate family can be a trial at times, at least there are only three of them to contend with. His aunt and uncle alone would perhaps have been bearable, but they have their own children, both slightly older than Mycroft, and worse yet, their children have partnered off and had children of their own. His relatives are mostly cut from the same mundane cloth as his parents – Uncle Rudy’s eccentricities aside – which means a great deal of chatter about sport, Christmas parties, holidays and schools. All told, there are thirteen of them gathered together, in a tableau almost horrifying enough to make Mycroft believe in superstition.

Sherlock becomes his unlikely salvation, although granted, were it not for him Mycroft would never be here at all. He sits beside Mycroft at the long table, and supplements Mycroft’s carefully dull answers with outrageous elaborations that make the children giggle. Mummy makes occasional noises of disapproval, but the indulgent look is back in her eyes – it’s been years since she’s had both of “her boys” together at Christmas, and she’s not about to spoil the occasion.

After lunch is over, he and Sherlock retire to garden chairs in the shade of an actual palm tree – Mycroft eyes it with deep suspicion – while the clamour disperses around them. Despite the smoking habit acquired during rehab, Sherlock looks to be in reasonable health – noticeably heavier, slightly tanned, and intent on updating Mycroft on his success in thwarting the appeal of a convicted criminal on death row. With his unerring instinct for trouble, Sherlock had stumbled into the case within a month of his arrival in Florida. Mycroft had initially been alarmed, then relieved. Sherlock’s investigations sounded on the dangerous side, but no more than a relapse would have been, and it had at least kept Sherlock intellectually occupied and away from thoughts of his old temptations. Over the past nine months Mycroft has received regular, if somewhat cryptic updates about the matter, such as, _He forgot about the wheel well_ , and, _Henderson won’t speak to me_.

“Anyway, the evidentiary hearing was a nightmare, pulling everything together just to find out half of it couldn’t be admitted, or some such nonsense. And now of course he’s appealed for clemency from the Governor, but he’ll never get it. It’ll still be years before he’s actually executed, of course, but he’ll never wiggle out of it now. Done and dusted.” Sherlock sweeps his palms together with satisfaction.

“Do try to remember it’s a man’s life you’re referring to, Sherlock.”

“You wouldn’t be quite so fastidious if you’d seen the pictures of his victims.”

“I’m not at all concerned about his life. I’m concerned about your positively indecent enthusiasm for ending it.” Mycroft has to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the shrieking 10-year-old twins in the pool.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, _that_ ,” Mycroft says, mock-seriously, then adds, “Was Mrs Hudson similarly… pleased?”

“She was delighted. He used to beat her, you know.”

“I see. And she’s _still_ playing bridge with Aunt Dorothea.”

“Every Tuesday. She’s very bad at it, apparently. Probably explains the state of Hudson’s accounts.”

Mycroft shakes his head, bemused. “Well. our aunt does know some very unorthodox people, it seems. But on the whole, it sounds like you enjoyed it. Playing detective.”

“As you point out, I was hardly _playing_.”

“No, I suppose not.” Mycroft pauses to politely wave away an offer of star-shaped biscuits, or _cookies_ , as his aunt insists on calling them, in defiance of her heritage. He’s quite pleased with his trimmer silhouette, reflecting a year’s worth of effort, and has resolved to maintain it for good this time. It’s all a matter of _self-control_. Sherlock looks on, amused. “I take it you enjoyed it much more than working in a lab.”

“Well, yes, but there’s no money in it.” Sherlock makes a face. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

He’s only half-right – even at Mycroft’s level the civil service pays poorly compared to a decent profession, but the perquisites are substantial, and over the years Mycroft has leveraged his unexceptional paycheck into a substantial investment portfolio. It helps to be on first-name terms with many of the major players in the market.

Mycroft graciously ignores him and continues. “But you do seem to have an aptitude for investigative work... I remember you complaining to me years ago about that boy that drowned. Powers.”

“I still say it was murder. I just can’t prove it.”

“So maybe you could try making something of yourself in that line. The experience you’ve gained would certainly come in handy.”

“But whoever would ever want to hire me?”

“Well, for a start, I might.” Mycroft waits, studying Sherlock carefully for his reaction.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “To do what, exactly? Discover who’s been using all the milk in the embassy fridge?”

The twins have abandoned the pool, and the male contingent of the party are now attempting to get together a game of garden cricket. As inspiring as it is to see Uncle Rudy keeping up yet another of England’s fondest traditions, it also means Mycroft and Sherlock are forced to interrupt their conversation to resist the chorus of entreaties. Daddy smooths things over with the air of long practice, throwing them a wink over his shoulder as he leads a disgruntled cousin away. Mycroft smiles his thanks, then turns back to Sherlock.

“Not exactly,” he says. He’s thought long and hard about the potential perils of telling Sherlock what he really does – the security services specialise in _discretion_ , after all. But he’s decided it’s no different from recruiting any other potential asset, even if Sherlock’s background means he would normally never make it through the screening process. Mycroft’s position now affords him a certain amount of latitude. “You see, I use the consulate as a base, but I’m not actually a diplomat. And I sometimes find myself in need of a little… unofficial assistance.”

At least Sherlock looks interested, if wary. “What do you mean, _not actually a diplomat_?”

It’s a little risky to discuss it here, of all places, but a rowdy game of cricket is now underway, and they’re well away from the rest of the family. “If you can’t work it out, you’re hardly going to be of much use to me. Anyway, do think about it, and let me know.”

“Would I get to come to New York? At this point, I’ll do anything to get out of Florida.”

It’s been to Sherlock’s credit that he’s taken his exile from London well, and shown no sign of relapse, or even trying to evade Mummy’s watchful eye. But Mycroft still wants him under someone’s close supervision, and enough time has passed he feels that it might as well be his own.

“I’ve had quite enough of New York,” Mycroft says. ”In fact, I was intending to return to London in the near future. For good. You’re welcome to come with me, unless you want to stay here for some unfathomable reason.” Mummy and Daddy have both taken an unexpected fancy to the US, and have already announced their intention to tour the southern states in the New Year. They’ve held off until the Hudson case was concluded, as has Mycroft. As it is, he’s already waited an extra three months to make Sherlock the offer.

“But how would I get settled back there? Especially since you’ve apparently taken control of what little money I had.” Despite his resentful tone, Sherlock’s eyes are alight with enthusiasm.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “You would live with me. For the time being, anyway.”

“Really? Is that wise, brother dear?”

Mycroft has repeatedly asked himself the same question, but come to no clear conclusions. He doesn’t feel comfortable entrusting Sherlock’s welfare to anyone but family, and in London Sherlock could be useful to him, just as he can be useful to Sherlock. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement. The fact that he misses Sherlock needn’t come into the equation at all.

Sarcastic applause and shouts interrupt the cricket game as a wayward ball lands in the pool. One of the twins is sent in to fetch it. Mycroft feigns a sudden interest in the proceedings, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

“As long as you keep your word,” he says, without turning his head.

“As long as _you_ do,” Sherlock counters.

Mycroft nods. He’s aware that Sherlock is smiling, which should worry him, but right now there’s just an odd sense of relief. He’s going home at last, and taking Sherlock with him. He’ll worry about everything else later.


	12. 2004

Mycroft returns to London a month in advance of Sherlock, and takes up residence in a three-storey terrace house on the border of Mayfair and Soho. The relief of being home is almost palpable. Each day the sky displays correctly refined shades of muted blue and grey, and the familiar mix of accents is far more pleasant to the ear. He relearns the arts of subtlety and reserve, and becomes far less generous with his tips. London’s indecisive climate reminds him to take an umbrella wherever he goes.

He retrieves Sherlock’s meagre belongings on his behalf – in his downward spiral towards homelessness, Sherlock had systematically sold or abandoned almost everything he owned, but stashed a few personal items in a locker. These were placed in storage along with the contents of the family home, relics of addiction mingling with those of childhood. Sherlock still has his violin, his microscope, and a perhaps unsurprising amount of glassware, which Mycroft supplements with old chemistry textbooks and true crime novels from the family collection. There’s only a small box of Sherlock’s winter clothing, in which Mycroft finds the navy-blue scarf of that long-ago Christmas, together with a long black coat, dry-cleaned and pressed. Given their general condition, it isn’t hard to deduce that they must have been the clothes Sherlock was wearing that night in Brixton. He puts them soberly in the wardrobe anyway.

Within a week of Mycroft’s return to work, his assistant brings in a couriered arrangement of yellow-pink orchids, freshly cleared by security. Despite posing no physical threat, they immediately overpower his office with their odd perfume, something reminiscent of citrus. Mycroft frowns at the sight of them, and unfolds the accompanying note:

_Welcome back, Mr Holmes. So sorry to hear about your brother._

It’s unsigned, but the combination of script and scent is enough to trigger a host of unpleasant memories. Mycroft can almost see Magnussen folding the note over with a satisfied smile, leaving his damp fingerprints on the paper. Sherlock’s drug problems are already known to those who matter, so Mycroft has little to fear from that particular issue, but the reminder is still unsettling. It’s now just barely within the realm of possibility that Mycroft could arrange to have Magnussen silenced for good, but there would be questions asked, possibly a full investigation. Given that the man has seemed content keeping his side of the bargain, it’s simply not worth the risk. Of course, Magnussen will no doubt take full advantage of Mycroft’s ever-increasing influence in the British government, but it can’t be helped.

Mycroft calls his assistant back and tells her to get the flowers off the floor and, preferably, out of the building. Despite requesting a fresh pot of coffee be brought immediately to his office, the smell lingers for hours afterwards.

***

The first night of Sherlock’s return, Mycroft lies in bed, awake and aware. Not _concerned_ , exactly, just hyperconscious of Sherlock’s presence in the still, dark house. Even with the upstairs bedroom set aside and laid out for him, Sherlock feels more like a houseguest, with both of them implicitly resolved to be on their best behaviour. Enough time has passed that Mycroft has learned to manage his inappropriate feelings for Sherlock, just as Sherlock has learned to subdue his drug cravings. Now that they’re back in London, each of them will work to ensure the safety and security of the nation in their different ways, and Mycroft will work to ensure the safety and security of Sherlock. Everything will be fine.

He has to believe this.

At first, his eyes continually flicker open at some half-sensed sound or movement, and he finds his attention inevitably returning to the doorway. Drifting in and out of consciousness, sometimes he sees Sherlock as a small, tousle-haired figure, hoping for a story, sometimes tall and solemn, leaning against the doorframe, waiting for Mycroft to beckon him over. He imagines Sherlock slipping into the double bed beside him, wanting nothing more than to be held and soothed to sleep. Mycroft could do that, perhaps, now, and go no further.

The room remains silent and still.

Eventually, Mycroft falls into a fitful sleep. He dreams of looking down into Sherlock’s face, which fills his vision, and Sherlock’s mouth curving into a smile.

***

Over the first six months, they establish a semblance of routine. On weekdays Mrs Evans arrives at five am to prepare and serve breakfast at six, regardless of whether Sherlock shows up for the meal. Once Mycroft leaves for the office, usually before seven, she’ll clean, shop and cook until noon, and leave dinner in the fridge if required.

Their own schedules are far less predictable. Mycroft might be home by seven pm, ten pm, or not at all, depending on whether he has evening functions to attend, or meetings outside the country that simply can’t be avoided. Sherlock’s work is equally varied – since his return, Mycroft has engaged him in a variety of unofficial activities, including surveillance of suspected security threats, planting bugs on private property, and striking up “chance” conversations with potential informants. His history with drugs makes him officially unemployable by any of the security services, so Mycroft runs him as a separate, private resource. His budget for such things is considerable. As such, on any given day Sherlock might be out until well past midnight, or never leave the house at all. Mycroft tries to make sure he sees him at least once a day, usually in the evenings. They text regularly.

One Friday Mycroft arrives home to find Sherlock pooled on the sofa in his dressing gown, bare feet hanging over the edge. Mycroft has had a difficult week – all weeks are difficult in their own way – but dramatic intrusions into Buckingham Palace (by a costumed would-be Batman) and the House of Commons (by fox-hunting enthusiasts) within two days of each other have blown up into a major security embarrassment. The latter in particular had resulted in a brief suspension of Parliament, and a continuing headache for Mycroft. With their usual restraint, the newspapers have branded it the worst breach of Parliamentary security since King Charles I stormed in with armed soldiers in 1642. Months of hand-wringing and analysis are sure to follow.

“So, what have you got for me for me today?” Mycroft asks, settling into an armchair. As always, he takes quiet pleasure in the sight of Sherlock, a reliable splash of colour in his world of greys.

“Boring.”

“If you could be a touch more specific.”

Sherlock sighs. “Subject LD had lunch with a blonde-haired woman at Cardinale in Berners St, Fitzrovia. Neatly-dressed but not wealthy, black skirt, cream blouse, officewear. From her grooming, probably a clerk of some description. By all visible signs, they are not having an affair, and nothing obvious changed hands, although sightlines were limited. Lunch took around forty minutes, and they talked throughout. He paid for both of them. I followed her back to Fitzroy Square, where she appears to work in a building that houses a variety of offices, including an international law firm. I wrote you a report.” He laces the last word with disdain.

“And any interesting chatter on the tube forums?”

“An entirely oxymoronic concept.” Sherlock gestures despairingly at the open laptop on the coffee table beside him. “Do you have any idea what they’re _like_? Opinions on the refurbished D-stock fleet. The role of the leading bogie in the White City derailment. Reports on the _Museum Depot open day_. Any self-respecting terrorist would run a mile rather than ask that lot _anything_.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I really would.”

“And the practice sweep?”

Sherlock sticks his hand in his dressing gown pocket and produces a dull metal rectangle about the size of his thumbnail. He holds it up in the air and turns his head towards Mycroft, a trifle smugly. “Behind the fridge. Really? Is that the best you could do?”

Mycroft rises from the armchair to pluck it from his hand. “There were two of them.”

“Oh.”

“Never mind.” Mycroft’s mouth twitches at the corners as he pockets the device. “You can try again tomorrow. Or on Monday.”

Making a great show of effort, Sherlock drags himself to a sitting position. “I’m not sure I can stand the pace. Who would have thought _Ministry of Defence_ work would be quite so exciting?”

“I really don’t know what you were expecting,” Mycroft says, mildly. “Shoot-outs and car chases, perhaps?”

“I just thought something might actually _happen_ occasionally.”

Admittedly, Sherlock has a point. While the jobs Mycroft assigns him aren’t strictly government-authorised, they are all relatively, and deliberately, low-risk. It’s kept Sherlock occupied, but clearly not enough for his liking.

“It’s still important, Sherlock. Good intelligence is the bedrock of national security. Heaven knows we could have done with a little more of it this week.” Mycroft shakes his head. The invasion of the House of Commons had been so well organised a _BBC journalist_ had been told about it days in advance. Hadn’t bothered passing the tip onto anyone, of course. He’d be on the watch list from now on.

“So you keep saying,” Sherlock says. “But it all gets a bit meaningless when you refuse to tell me the _point_ of any of it. What should I care whether Jack is having lunch with Jill or if Little Red Riding Hood is having an affair with the Big Bad Wolf?”

Mycroft’s mouth quirks at the corners. “And yet lives often depend on such trivial details. Money transfers. Flying lessons.”

“Yes, or you could just be sending me off on random errands for your own amusement.”

“What a horribly suspicious mind you have – I would never waste you like that. But on the whole… you’ve been doing very well, Sherlock. Is it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Sherlock says, but without any real heat behind it. Mycroft wants to lay a hand on his shoulder, to show that he appreciates the effort Sherlock has been making, but he doesn’t. The weight of Sherlock’s gaze glides over him, something he still finds vaguely disconcerting. He’s not accustomed to being on the receiving end of such scrutiny.

Sherlock has been surprisingly manageable as an employee, of sorts, but neither of them have really settled into a comfortable way of simply _being_ with each other. In company Sherlock has always seemed ready to perform – full of crackling energy, keen to show off his intellect in the most dazzling manner. When it’s only Mycroft, that part of him recedes, leaving an odd reserve in its place. Mycroft, too, treats Sherlock with a careful distance, trying to show his concern for Sherlock’s welfare and nothing more. At least work is something they both understand.

“Well, if there’s anything you think you’d specifically like to do…” Mycroft ventures, without hoping for much in the way of a response. If Sherlock were suited to a particular profession, surely he’d have found it by now. No chance of little old ladies caught up in death penalty cases in London, for obvious reasons.

“I was thinking…” Sherlock says, and then trails off, which immediately piques Mycroft’s interest. It’s so unlike Sherlock to be uncertain about anything. _Almost_ anything, his brain automatically corrects, before reflexively shunting aside the entire train of thought. He sits beside Sherlock on the settee, a little distance away, but turns towards him.

“Go on.”

“I was thinking I’d like to go into practice for myself.” He glances briefly at Mycroft and then away again. His hands twist fitfully in his lap. “Something similar to what I’m doing now, but in a private capacity. Where it would mean something, where I’d know _why_ I was doing it. I could take cases, like I did with Mrs Hudson.”

“What sort of… cases?” Mycroft frowns, trying to follow Sherlock’s train of thought. “You mean process serving and divorces, that sort of thing? That’s what private investigators typically do.”

“That’s what _ordinary_ private investigators do,” Sherlock says, with a tilt of his chin. “I’d be more of… a consultant.”

“A consulting investigator.”

“A consulting _detective_.”

Mycroft frowns and struggles to hide his instinctive response. It’s too late, of course; Sherlock’s eyes flicker to his face, and he grimaces.

“You think I’m being ridiculous.”

“No,” Mycroft says, a half-truth. “A touch impractical, possibly. But I’d like to know what your plans are. How do you intend to find clients, for example?”

“I would advertise, of course. Newspapers, the internet. My own website. I’d get a few cranks, but there must be _something_ interesting out there. And I would have thought there might even be some in your high and mighty set who might benefit from my _discretion_.”

Mycroft turns the idea over thoughtfully. Sherlock clearly possesses both the aptitude and skills for investigative work, and as a specialised service, it might have some potential. As long as Sherlock manages to rein himself in long enough to persuade actual people to trust him with their problems.

“And your offices? I’m not sure leasing rooms in a decent part of London would justify the expense.”

Sherlock gestures at the living space. “I would go out to meet them, where possible. Otherwise… I could run it from here. Mrs Evans won’t mind.”

“You mean, she’ll be paid not to.” Mycroft shudders at the thought of the general public invading his home, even the lower portion of it, but reluctantly concedes that the security risk is acceptable. Due to the continuing presence of Mrs Evans, nothing of importance is left unsecured to begin with, and the place is already security swept on a regular basis.

“We usually eat upstairs, and you’re ever hardly at home anyway,” Sherlock adds.

“All right,” Mycroft says at last. “It sounds like a workable scheme, at least. You’ll need to wind up your existing duties, but after that, you’re free to attempt it. Not that you really need my blessing.”

“Oh, but I do.” Sherlock offers him a smile that makes Mycroft instantly wary. “You wouldn’t deny me access to a certain amount of technology, would you? Or… information.”

Mycroft tries to look stern, but can’t help being impressed by Sherlock’s sheer audacity. “You’re saying you want me to let you keep your classified access codes and the use of some extremely expensive equipment in the service of running your own _detective agency_.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice takes on a defensive edge. ”Something to keep me busy? Out of your hair? And don’t forget, I’d still be willing to offer my services to Her Majesty’s Government if anything _interesting_ ever came up.”

“You realise it would be a completely unethical misappropriation of government resources.”

“So that would be a yes, then.”

“Fine, Sherlock.” Mycroft shakes his head, smiling. “Fine.”

Sherlock gives him a look of such gratitude that Mycroft is forced to look away. He gets up, makes his excuses and retreats to the sanctuary of his room.

***

That night Mycroft dreams of Sherlock, creeping into his room on bare feet, calling his name. Sherlock’s age is indeterminate, neither young nor old – more sensory impression than physical presence. More than anything, Mycroft is aware of the invisible bond of blood between them, the differences in age and character that have always shaped their relationship. For a moment he hangs suspended in limbo, unsure if he’s awake or asleep, and then his eyes flicker open and he realises it really _is_ Sherlock, standing not two feet from the edge of his bed.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock is only a shadow, but his eyes glimmer in the darkness. “I can’t sleep.”

Past and present blur together in Mycroft’s consciousness, making him slow to respond. His first instinct is to take Sherlock into his arms, his bed, but then he comes to his senses.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock takes a step closer, settling himself lightly on the edge of Mycroft’s bed, and Mycroft tenses. The heat of Sherlock’s body bleeds through the duvets. “Can’t sleep,” he repeats.

“But why are you _here_?”

“I thought you might let me…” Sherlock says. One of his hands slips beneath the covers to flip them back, and brushes against Mycroft’s forearm. Mycroft immediately pulls away and struggles to a sitting position. He’s uncomfortably aware of how close Sherlock is, how warm and trembling and human. “…just to sleep.”

“You know you can’t,” Mycroft says.

“Why? I’ll _behave_. That’s all I’ve been doing for the past two years. Behaving.”

“No. Go back to bed.” Mycroft can’t – doesn’t want to – explain that it’s not necessarily Sherlock he distrusts, but himself. That despite his best intentions there have been nights where he’s thought of Sherlock and his open door, and had to bring himself off quickly before he could sleep. It had been easier, safer, being alone, but having Sherlock in his life on a daily basis has been both comfort and torment. He can’t risk having Sherlock in his bed, no matter how pure his motivations might be.

Sherlock doesn’t move. There’s only the soft rush of his breath, in and out. “Please, Mycroft.” Something akin to panic edges his tone.” I… I’ve tried. I don’t know what to do.”

Mycroft shakes his head, not taken in for a second. “As you’ve said, you’ve managed very well for two years. Why come to me now?”

Sherlock is silent, his head bowed.

“I thought you’d been doing so much better on that front. After all those coping techniques they taught you. Meditation or some such.”

“They don’t work.”

“Then do whatever you’ve been doing. Go back to bed. Now.” Mycroft feels like he’s chiding an seven-year-old, except, of course, that he would have let a seven-year-old Sherlock do exactly as he pleased.

He breathes a soft sigh of relief as Sherlock appears to concede, and his weight lifts off the bed. Then Sherlock stops again and turns, looking down at Mycroft with such intensity that he can feel it even in darkness. “I wanted you to know I tried.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft says, but Sherlock is already on his way out, leaving the door open behind him.

Mycroft swings his legs out of bed, intending to shut it again, but thinks better of it and lies back down. From the vantage point of his pillow he can see the glow of light from upstairs, and hear Sherlock’s footsteps as he paces his room. There’s definitely something amiss tonight, even though Mycroft can’t work out quite what it is. While Sherlock is often up past midnight, he’s rarely moving about, much less complaining about insomnia. Gradually the pacing slows, and he hears Sherlock go into his upstairs bathroom, use the toilet, wash his hands, and have a drink of water. Then his footsteps finally return to the bed and settle. The light goes off.

After a long, suspenseful period of silence, Mycroft closes his eyes again, troubled. Part of him wants to interrogate Sherlock as to the meaning of his visit, but it’s far too easy for Mycroft to doubt his own motives. He doesn’t want to push open any doors that ought to remain closed. And given the day’s events, Sherlock clearly wants to assert some of his independence, meaning that perhaps Mycroft has been too overbearing in his efforts. It’s a fine line between being responsible for Sherlock and suffocating him. Reluctantly, Mycroft decides it would be fairer to leave Sherlock to deal with things on his own.

Eventually Mycroft falls back to sleep, and this time he does not dream.


	13. 2005

Mycroft is already seated at the table with the morning papers when Mrs Evans comes upstairs with his breakfast. She no longer bothers setting a place for Sherlock, since he rarely rises before nine am these days, but leaves his tray in the kitchen. Today she pours Mycroft tea and sets out his meal – boiled eggs, fruit and toast – as silently and efficiently as always, but does not retreat back downstairs. Instead, she stops at his elbow and waits, hands folded primly in front of her, radiating an air of disapproval from her grey-haired, stocky frame.

“Mrs Evans?” Mycroft sets down his newspaper and glances at her with a familiar sense of trepidation.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she says, in her soft Scottish burr, “But I need to speak with you about young Mr Holmes.” The _again_ remains tactfully unspoken.

“I’ve already told him to keep his mould experiments out of the kitchen, and the slides are on hold until the new fridge arrives. All right?”

“Yes, sir. But he cannot keep putting all his test tubes and tumblers in the sink with the dishes and such. I’ve kept them apart as best I can, but yesterday’s lot melted one of the glasses! I had to use a second pair of gloves.”

Very slowly, Mycroft sets down his cup of tea. “Really.”

“It’s all right, sir, I put all those ones aside. I’d rather throw the lot out, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Yes, that does sound advisable. Thank you, Mrs Evans, I’ll speak to him directly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft waits until she’s out of the room before heaving a deep sigh. Sherlock’s new _enterprise_ has been doing tolerably well, but left Sherlock with too much spare time on his hands, most of it spent at home. After gaining effective control of the sitting room for his business, many of Sherlock’s possessions have migrated downstairs and colonised the remaining space in the form of questionable experiments. The kitchen remains contested territory.

On top of that, the tranquillity of the household has been seriously impaired. Neither Sherlock nor the clients he attracts seem to believe in the concept of _office hours_ , and Sherlock thinks little of taking on potential cases on weekends, evenings or once, memorably, at two in the morning. Mycroft had voiced his objections quite strenuously after the last occasion, but for the most part he reluctantly understands that it’s necessary for Sherlock to be available whenever people want to see him. Occasionally they will even pay him for the privilege.

Rather than shift Sherlock out into a separate office, which would take him out of Mycroft’s purview, over the past few months Mycroft has begun pursuing the idea of a private space exclusively dedicated to his own peace and quiet. Apparently he’s not alone in the need for such a sanctuary, although the colleagues he’s discussed the idea with seem more intent on avoiding partners, children, and occasionally, work. At any rate, there appears enough general interest in the idea that he feels confident it could run as a going concern. In particular, Lord Caldwell – David – has begun having vague thoughts of retirement, and greets Mycroft’s idea with enthusiasm.

“I think I know just the thing,” he says, over a weekday lunch, and lifts his glass of Bordeaux as though in salute. The murmur of conversation and the clinking of flatware form a soothing cocoon around them. “Alexander’s.”

“And what’s that?” Mycroft asks, smiling. Today’s meeting is something of an indulgence, with no political agenda but the relatively uncomplicated pleasures of Caldwell’s company.

Caldwell’s eyes light up with the pleasure he’s always taken in enlightening Mycroft on some arcane piece of information seemingly reserved for the upper classes. He leans back slightly in his chair to expound. “One of the old-style gentlemen’s clubs, shut up shop just last year. Like any other line of business, you know, some of them keep on forever, but others run into trouble or close down for lack of interest. I wouldn’t even have known about the place except that Papa used to have meetings there back in the ‘60s, and then parked himself there until he died. The club itself was much older, of course – the name had something to do with Alexander the Great, I think, conquering the world. Suppose there hasn’t been much call for that sort of thing since we lost the Empire.” Caldwell sounds almost wistful, making Mycroft suddenly aware of the gulf in years between them. “Anyway, it was right in the heart of St James, and I don’t think the building’s been re-let since. Shall we go take a look at it this evening?”

“You’d be willing to help get the club off the ground?”

“You don’t expect me to spend my retirement sitting at home, do you? I shouldn’t think Vera would approve of it, either. Besides, I suspect you’re far too busy nowadays to want to do more than run your eye over the plans and put your tuppence ha’penny’s worth in.”

Mycroft nods, pleased. “That sounds even more promising. Thank you, David.”

“Don’t thank me yet. At least wait until we see whether it’s suitable.”

Conversation falls away for a while as a waiter arrives bearing their dishes on a silver platter, and they turn their attention to the meal. Mycroft savours each bite of his chicken _piccata_ , its buttery sauce lifted with the sharpness of pepper and lemon.

“How are things with you, anyway?” Caldwell asks, pausing for another sip of wine. “I’ve seen so little of you since you’ve been back. Too busy taking over the British government to spare time for an old man?”

“You’re hardly that,” Mycroft says, even though they both recognise the flattery for what it is. “And they’re going as well as can be expected, I suppose.”

“I hear your brother’s opened a… detective agency? That’s an unusual line of work.”

“Well, Sherlock _has_ always been rather unconventional, it’s true. I think that’s always been half his problem.”

“Listen, Mycroft.” Caldwell sets down his cutlery entirely, and extends his hand slightly across the tablecloth, but stops well short of Mycroft’s own. “I know it’s none of my concern, but I’m a curious fellow, and you did ask me for a certain favour, once. This business with your brother, and the drugs… was that what Charles was threatening you with, all those years ago?”

Mycroft hesitates, considering his words carefully. “In a way.”

“But now that it’s out there, it hasn’t really made any difference to you, has it?”

“No, I suppose not,” Mycroft says. “But at the time… I thought it might severely affect my chances of advancement if people knew my brother had a drug problem.” He’s become so accustomed to dealing in lies and half-truths that the explanation barely registers on his conscience. All that matters to Mycroft these days is his ability to _manage_ any particular situation.

“That’s a little cold, isn’t it?”

“As you once said, not everyone can be like you, David. Forgive me if I think some things should remain private.”

“Yes, all right, Mycroft, all right,” Caldwell says, in a pacifying tone that Mycroft suddenly finds horribly familiar. It’s the same one he’s used on Mummy all these years.

“Anyway, you can’t have been too bothered by my absence,” Mycroft says, smiling in lieu of an apology. “You’ve hardly been lacking for _company_ yourself. Or so I’ve heard. You know how word gets around if you let it.”

“Touché,” Caldwell says. “Yes, I still manage well enough, and pleasant enough company, at that. But I must say that compared with you, no-one else has ever been quite so… ambitious.”

Caldwell is smiling, but there’s that same odd wistfulness he displayed in describing the passing of empire, and Mycroft doesn’t know quite how to respond. Empires may rise and fall, but the work remains. It’s the understanding upon which their relationship, such as it is, has always been built.

“Was there something else you needed, perhaps?” Mycroft asks, with polite sincerity. He understands that he owes Caldwell for his help, in all ways, and that returning favours is all part of the game. “From me?”

Caldwell studies him for a moment longer, then shakes his head and begins cutting another forkful of his _bistecca_. “No, Mycroft,” he says firmly. “Nothing at all.”

***

Three weeks after the lunch with Caldwell,  Mycroft returns home in triumph to inform Sherlock of his plans. He and Caldwell co-signed an initial five-year lease in the morning – Mycroft’s own early Christmas present to himself – which was followed by a leisurely lunch and an afternoon of pleasant discussion. Mycroft’s cheeks are still lightly flushed from the wine, and his enthusiasm remains undiminished in the face of Sherlock’s scorn.

“So in short, you and Caldwell intend to found the dullest club in the history of mankind,” Sherlock says, glancing up intermittently from behind his laptop. “A club for people to do, literally, nothing.”

 “A place where people can _think_ undisturbed,” Mycroft says. “You’d be welcome, of course. Silence might rather become you.”

He ignores Sherlock’s eyeroll and perches on the other side of what used to be the rarely-used formal dining table, now home to unruly stacks of Sherlock’s case files. The site plans are still in Mycroft’s hands, and he contemplates them with satisfaction. As Caldwell promised, it’s a handsome building, perfectly located, and requires very little in the way of structural alteration to make it fit for purpose. The bottom two floors will house the club facilities – library, dining rooms, multiple lounges, visitors’ room – while the top two will be reserved for private rooms and offices.

 “It’s a ridiculous name, too, for some exclusive Establishment pleasure palace,” Sherlock adds, glancing over at him. “Diogenes lived in a _jar_.”

“Where I’m sure it was very peaceful.” Mycroft retorts. “Actually it’s said that when Alexander the Great offered him any favour he wanted, Diogenes told him to stop blocking the sunlight. That’s all he wanted – not power, but to be able to enjoy the the simple pleasures in life. Even Alexander admired him for that.”

Sherlock snorts. “Your pleasures are anything _but_ simple.”

“You’re one to talk.” Mycroft nods at the back of Sherlock’s laptop. “And what have you been up to this week? Must be a slow time of year in general.”

“Not really,” Sherlock says. “Alcohol consumption goes up forty percent in December, which means more paranoia, carelessness, and stupidity than ever. Excellent for business. Murders and burglaries also spike, more’s the pity. The police have all the fun.”

“So will you be taking tomorrow off?” Mycroft offers him a wry half-smile. “After all, it’s Christmas.”

“I don’t see why it should make any difference. Good god, you haven’t _planned_ anything, have you?” Sherlock says, looking at him with alarm. This year it’ll be just the two of them – their parents are staying in Florida, having chosen to alternate their Christmases between continents.

“Not at all,” Mycroft says. “I suppose it _is_ a good time to catch up on work.”

“Exactly. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Sherlock tilts his head and looks at him curiously. “What have _you_ got to do with the James Miller case?”

Mycroft’s brow furrows. He’s acquainted with the name, but has automatically filtered out the ongoing saga from his daily perusal of the papers. Unless the circumstances are highly unusual, or involve a certain strata of British society, Mycroft finds the reportage of individual criminal cases neither relevant nor interesting.

“Nothing whatsoever, I’d hope,” Mycroft says. “He’s the one from the papers, presumably? A murder trial of some description. I ignored the detail.”

“That’s right. He was recently convicted for the murder of his ex-girlfriend, sentenced to twelve years without parole. Sensational trial, claims of witness intimidation and planting of evidence. But my client is actually Laura Miller, sister of the accused. She claims that the newspapers somehow obtained details of certain private conversations between herself and her brother prior to his arrest, and furthermore, that these private conversations influenced the subsequent police investigation. The police themselves, of course, aren’t the slightest bit interested in what she has to say. So she came to me.”

“All right. And?”

“So earlier this week I made an unofficial investigation of one of the lead reporters’ homes –“

“You mean you broke into his house.”

“– and discovered some very interesting notes – some on his computer, some handwritten. They indicate that he had indeed obtained unauthorised access to both Miss Miller’s mobile phone records, as well as her voicemail account. And she wasn’t the only one. He had copious notes on at least eighty people, including some very high-profile names, mostly celebrities and criminals. It seems like your lot aren’t the only ones who enjoy spying on people for fun and profit.”

Sherlock smirks, but Mycroft lets the jibe pass. He has the sickening feeling he already knows where this is heading.

“I take it the reporter in question would have been well aware that his home had been… investigated?” Mycroft asks.

“It was unavoidable.”

“And I also take it that Miss Miller had already voiced her suspicions quite publicly – either directly to the reporter in question or to other members of the media pack? Perhaps including the insinuation that she'd be taking this further and launching an investigation of her own?”

“Well, yes. I suppose that’s predictable enough. She’s quite the _outspoken_ type. They all refused to actually print her allegations, of course.”

“And then you received a note,” Mycroft says grimly. “Laser-printed on cotton fibre white wove paper, unsigned, no watermark. Probably hand-delivered to the house, folded.”

“How in _hell_ could you possibly know that?”

At any other time, the sheer outrage in Sherlock’s expression would be entertaining, but Mycroft is very far from being amused. Sherlock reaches towards a pile of folders stacked beside him on the long wooden table and extracts a piece of paper – white wove, folded. Mycroft plucks it reluctantly from his hand.

The paper appears smooth and dry, but the dread of expectations is enough to provoke a reflexive nausea in Mycroft as he opens it.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_You will cease all investigations into both Richard Preston and the James Miller case, effective immediately. I assure you I have your brother’s full support on this matter._

Mycroft thrusts the paper back into Sherlock’s hand as he stares, astonished.

“You’ll drop the case,” Mycroft says flatly.

“I will _not_.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s briefly dips his head, trying to ease the tension in his neck. “You must.”

“Why? Who exactly is this from, and why on earth would he think you’d _support_ him?”

Mycroft meets Sherlock’s furious gaze for a long moment, and then sighs. It had been stupid of him, really. Naïve. To think that Magnussen would confine his little “favours” and “requests” to Mycroft alone. But then again, Mycroft had never really imagined that what he still thought of as “Sherlock’s little investigative venture” would ever intersect with the larger world he inhabited.

He walks around to Sherlock’s side of the table, and pulls out the chair beside him, sits down, while Sherlock pushes back a little from the table to face him.

“His name is Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Mycroft says. “He’s –“

“Yes, I know quite well who he is. Owner of the _The Globe_ , _The Daily Herald_ and _Mercury_ , as well as some regional subsidiaries. Making him, at quite some distance, Richard Preston’s employer. All right, so it stands to reason he wouldn’t be happy about one of his newspapers being linked to illegal activity, but what makes him think _you’d_ care?”

Mycroft swallows, then looks away. It’s been years, now, since that insane weekend with Sherlock, and he has no wish to rekindle the memories for either of them, given that they seem to have finally reached a kind of workable equilibrium. But now it seems he has no choice. Sherlock will not back off unless he understands exactly what’s at stake.

“He knows,” Mycroft says.

“Knows _what_? Apart from how to run a media conglomerate with a complete absence of ethical standards. Although I suppose that’s something of a prerequisite nowadays.”

“He knows… about us.” Mycroft still can’t quite meet Sherlock’s eyes. “What we did. Before. That weekend in Cumbria. He’s been in the surveillance business for…  a very long time.”

There’s a long silence, and when Mycroft looks back up Sherlock is unnaturally still.

“Just _when_ did he approach you?” Sherlock says, finally.

As briefly as possible, Mycroft outlines his initial meeting with Magnussen – his knowledge of certain phone conversations, the damning photographs. Followed by the notes, the favours, the requests. He tries to make Sherlock understand that while Magnussen is a threat, he’s also, in some ways, an asset. There have also been times Mycroft has politely requested that coverage of certain political issues be given a particular slant, or even ignored entirely, and Magnussen’s papers have complied. While Mycroft loathes Magnussen on a personal level, he’s simply playing the game like the rest of them.

“So you’ve been working with him for _years_.” It’s clear Sherlock does not see things in quite the same light.

“Hardly through choice.”

“And he’s known about – us – for just as long.”

“As I’ve said.” Mycroft finds it unsettling to need to repeat himself. Shock must have made Sherlock slow.

“So, all this time… what difference would it have made?”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock rises abruptly from his chair, as though unable to restrain himself any longer. His eyes flash with such fury that Mycroft instinctively recoils, startled. “I always thought the whole issue was that you couldn’t risk anyone _finding out_ , having it ruin your precious career. But now you’re saying Magnussen has known for _years_ , and you’ve succeeded just the same. And all this time I was _stupid_ enough to think that you really did want me, that if things were different, you would have…”

Sherlock shakes his head, pressing his lips tightly together against some nameless emotion. Mycroft only stares.

“I don’t understand, Sherlock,” he says at last. “I thought all of that was behind us.”

“Why? Because you said it was?”

“Because it’s pointless wasting time regretting the impossible.”

“There’s nothing _impossible_ about it. We’re already living together, and you’ve been almost paranoid about security. What more harm could it possibly have done?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point? You’ve asked me to explain myself often enough, but you never have, have you? It’s not fear of someone finding out, because apparently it’s far too late for that already. I’m hardly too young to know my own mind, not any more. And if you didn’t care for me at least a little, you would never have offered to let me live with you.”

“We’re still brothers. That much should be obvious.”

“But why should that _matter_? Give me one logical reason why it should.”

Mycroft shakes his head, refusing to be drawn onto the shaky ground of conscience and morality. He hears Sherlock sigh, a long exhale of breath. “Tell me, Mycroft… did you ever truly want me?”

As little as Mycroft wants to discuss this, he can’t bear the doubt in Sherlock’s eyes.

“What do you think?” he says softly. “More than anything. But it would have been a distraction I simply couldn’t afford.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. You’ve slept with with plenty of people. If that really were the case, you would have been permanently distracted.”

Mycroft is silent for a time, struggling to articulate what to him has always been obvious. “It’s not the same,” he says at last. “How could it be? With them… it was simple.  At first, it was for the experience, and then later on it was more about obtaining information, making connections, getting things done. All pleasant enough, but it never _meant_ anything.”

Sherlock nods, but his expression hardens. “So what you’re saying is, _quid pro quo_ is the only thing you understand.”

“That’s not true…”

“It’s _entirely_ true,” Sherlock says briskly, cutting him off with an impatient wave. “But all right, then. You’ve explained your reasoning perfectly, so let’s get back to the matter at hand. You’re saying you want me to drop any further investigation into both James Miller and anything to do with Magnussen’s media outlets.”

“Yes.”

“And what if I refuse?”

Mycroft stares at him. “Were you planning to refuse?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Magnussen… he could ruin me,” Mycroft says. “Just the photographs alone… I would lose all the influence I have in government. The enemies I have… well, they’d make sure no one would ever listen to me again. Please, Sherlock. Surely you can’t hate me _that_ much.” Mycroft’s voice falters as he realises Sherlock could easily choose to bring him down out of spite, if he so wished. After all, he has very little of his own reputation to lose.

Moving slowly and deliberately, Sherlock sits back down in the chair, spreading his legs wide. His eyes are almost feverishly bright as he tilts his chin up towards Mycroft.

“In that case, I want you to suck me off,” he says.

Mycroft eyes him with disbelief. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock shrugs, holding his gaze. “It’s a simple business proposition, brother mine. The kind you ought to _understand_. You get down on your knees, right now, and I drop the investigation.”

A sense of unreality washes over Mycroft, as though the ground were shifting beneath his feet. Sherlock’s face is suddenly that of a stranger’s. All Mycroft’s life, he’s thought of Sherlock as intrinsically vulnerable, needing to be alternately indulged and protected – both from himself, and from the world. Even from Mycroft himself. He’s never seen this side of Sherlock, has never even imagined its existence. He shakes his head numbly.

“All right,” Sherlock says, and turns back to the laptop. “Now, it’s true that the police might not care to get involved in the Miller case, but I imagine the more well-known celebrities would be fascinated to hear some of the juicier details I’ve turned up regarding their private conversations. A few of _them_ ought to get a major inquiry going easily enough. Imagine the trouble that would cause for Magnussen and his newspapers.”

“Sherlock, for god’s sake.”

“Well, then?”

Mycroft’s brain is in unaccustomed turmoil. “You’re serious.”

“There would be very little point, otherwise,” Sherlock says, in a disparaging tone that Mycroft recognises as his own.

He sits in silence watching Sherlock poke around on his laptop, waiting for a reprieve that doesn’t come. In some ways it’s the excuse he might always have wanted, but in all his memories, his fantasies, Sherlock looks at him with love and longing, surrendering to the pleasures of Mycroft’s mouth on him. Nothing like this.

“All right,” he says at last. He still doesn’t quite believe it, that Sherlock would demand this of him, should want to humiliate him in such a cold, calculating manner.

Sherlock glances at him dismissively. “On your knees.”

Slowly, Mycroft rises from his chair, and then kneels, something for which the cut of his trousers is clearly not designed. He tugs lightly at the fabric to adjust for the strain. Sherlock makes him wait for another minute before he finally turns from the laptop. He stares down at Mycroft, his expression closed and unreadable.

“Go on, then,” he says.

Mycroft shuffles between Sherlock’s legs, hyperconscious of his gaze as his fingers go hesitantly to the button of Sherlock’s trousers. Above him, Sherlock’s breathing is deep and even, controlled. Mycroft’s cheeks burn with humiliation. At this moment, he doesn’t find the situation at all arousing, and at first glance Sherlock would appear to feel much the same way. His cock twitches when Mycroft touches it through the fabric of his briefs, but only begins to harden when Mycroft takes it gently in his hand.

As he bends over Sherlock, breathing in the musk of him, something of the familiar desire returns, and Mycroft welcomes it. His tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. When it comes down to it, it’s nothing he hasn’t longed to do, albeit under very different circumstances. He can feel the trembling in the muscles of Sherlock’s thighs around him as he lowers his head.

Then Sherlock’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him violently away, and Mycroft startles and then overbalances, sprawling sideways onto the floor. He lies there, dazed, aware of Sherlock swiftly doing up his trousers again, getting to his feet. Mycroft could try to right himself, but right now the floor seems a marginally less degrading option, and he rests his cheek gratefully against the carpet, eyes shut. It’s nothing but a dream, a nightmare from which will soon awaken.

Sherlock stands there, waiting, but Mycroft refuses to turn his head to look at him. He almost expects to feel the toe of Sherlock’s shoe in his side, driving his point home, but Sherlock doesn’t move.

“You wouldn’t do it because you _wanted me_.” Sherlock invests the words with icy scorn. “But you’d do it for your _career_.”

There’s nothing Mycroft can say. He has no defence that Sherlock would accept, not even the truth, which is that he’s always denied himself every bit as much as he has Sherlock. But Sherlock’s outburst reminds him that even now, there are more important things at stake. It gives him the strength to sit up and meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock is as angry as Mycroft has ever seen him – not with the fiery anger of childhood, but the cold, hard anger that burns long and deep. He steps over Mycroft’s body and heads towards the door, where he turns back.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, with obvious effort, “I’ll drop the investigation.” His footsteps echo along the front hallway, and Mycroft can hear him gathering his keys, wallet and coat. The front door slams shut.

Slowly, Mycroft picks himself up off the floor, and slides into Sherlock’s vacated seat, his shame now mixed with undeniable relief. Sherlock’s laptop is still open on the table, the screen unlocked – a virtual invitation. Mycroft pulls it towards himself, clicks through assorted folders, and then shakily begins destroying all traces of the Miller investigation. The newly-signed lease for the Diogenes Club is directly in his eyeline, across the polished wood of the table, but all traces of Mycroft’s earlier enthusiasm are gone. The house is already far too quiet around him.


	14. 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there! While most chapters have been stand alone, please note that 13-16 will form one continuous section, although each chapter will still be rounded off in its own way. I'm afraid that just... happened.

After he’s deleted and wiped the Miller case files as thoroughly as he can, Mycroft pushes Sherlock’s laptop aside and simply sits, trying to quiet the tumult in his brain. Sherlock has been gone almost an hour now, and there’s no telling when he’ll return. It’s nearly six o’clock in the evening, and the streets will still be full of desperate shoppers intent on securing a last-ditch ham or forgotten present for some cousin they see exactly once a year. Carols will be blaring incessantly from sound systems and people will be staggering home for dinner after a little too much Christmas cheer. He imagines Sherlock heading as far away from the madness as possible, somewhere private and quiet to lick his wounds. A back alley perhaps, or secluded park…

Mycroft hesitantly picks up his phone, already knowing Sherlock will not answer if he calls. Instead, he texts: _Where are you_?

He doesn’t really expect a response, and after ten minutes, it’s clear he’s not going to get one. Still, if Sherlock has his phone, he can be tracked – Mycroft has already made sure of the contingency. But he would have to go into the office to access the data, and he’d also have to justify his actions to Sherlock later on. For all Mycroft knows, Sherlock has simply ducked off to calm his nerves with a cigarette, or decided to work off his frustrations on a different case. It’s far too soon to _worry_. Over the past two years, Mycroft’s tried to show trust in Sherlock, to give him his own space and privacy. Only the small sense of unease in the pit of his stomach warns him that this time could be different.

He picks up the phone again: _Please come home._

In the meantime, what he _ought_ to do is go upstairs to the spare bedroom his uses as his study, and do something useful. While most of London is in full-fledged holiday mode – even Mrs Evans is on three weeks’ leave, and won’t be returning until early in the New Year – for Mycroft the work never really stops. National security is a higher profile issue than ever, but the services are stretched thin. With the proliferation of online radicals and social media, there is simply too much information, and not enough processing power, human or machine, to investigate all of it. Meanwhile, the fallout from the 7/7 tube attacks is ongoing, while the preparations for the 2012 Olympics have only just begun. There’s always _something_.

But he only sits at the table, in Sherlock’s seat, his mind automatically replaying the scene of Sherlock’s departure – the shock, the humiliation, the cold anger in Sherlock’s gaze. _You wouldn’t do it because you wanted me. But you’d do it for your career_. Mycroft isn’t prone to introspection, would rather examine anyone else’s motivations but his own, but Sherlock’s accusation sits stubbornly at the back of his mind, refusing to be ignored. He’s always found his relationship with Sherlock beyond his powers of analysis. Their lives have been entangled for so long that he might as well try to evaluate the effects of gravity or atmospheric pressure on his existence.

Mycroft had been fascinated from the first with the baby Mummy brought home from the hospital. Sherlock was like his own living science experiment, even if he was one you had to be a little bit careful with. A touch of his cheek would bring a smile or gurgle, while tickling his palm would make his fingers curl up like a tulip closing for the night. In Sherlock’s first year, Mycroft would often sit cross-legged on the living room floor beside the blue bunny rug and talk to him about fossils and books, while Sherlock babbled and waved his fists. He still remembers Sherlock’s intent, pale-eyed gaze, suggesting infinite wisdom, although most likely just wind. By the time Sherlock was three, they would do lessons with Mummy together, even though Sherlock’s attention span usually wavered after half an hour, and he’d demand to be included in whatever Mycroft was doing even if he hadn’t a hope of understanding it.

When Sherlock was six, Mycroft taught him to play chess. Sherlock had understood the rules well enough, but never seemed to care for the object of the game. His play was always aggressive and somewhat irrational, far more interested in engaging Mycroft’s pieces in battle than in checkmating his king. Even so, occasionally one of his moves was so unorthodox and challenging that Mycroft would need to study the board for a good while, perplexed, before proceeding. As they grew older, occasionally Sherlock even won. After one particularly conclusive victory, at the age of twelve, he had refused to play Mycroft ever again.

Now Mycroft feels the echoes of such unsettling manoeuvres in Sherlock’s attempt to turn Magnussen’s threats against him. Sherlock seems forever bent on repeating patterns from the past for reasons Mycroft doesn’t quite understand. His love for Sherlock has surely never been in question; why Sherlock would continue to want physical proof of that eludes him. There’s nothing Mycroft can do for him, physically, that a million other people could not do. Granted, the same could be said for his own desire for Sherlock, even though Mycroft clearly has aesthetic justification on his side.

Even so, it’s always been more than a mere question of temptation. While Mycroft has always been aware of his responsibilities towards Sherlock, and unwilling to compromise them, he’s also well aware that a physical relationship would give Sherlock more power over Mycroft than anyone has ever held. Power is dangerous in the wrong hands: Mycroft knows that better than anyone. Regardless of his conscience or his desires, it’s simply not worth the risk. But when presented with the opportunity, Sherlock had chosen to spare him, had resigned his own position rather than force Mycroft’s defeat.

Mycroft can’t quite understand that, either.

He checks his phone again, but the screen remains stubbornly dark. _I’m sorry_ , he texts slowly. After setting it back on the table, he stares into space, trying not to think about where Sherlock might be, and what he might be doing.

He needs a drink.

Mycroft hasn’t opened the liquor cabinet for a while, but it shows decided signs of depletion, perhaps from Sherlock’s clients, perhaps from Sherlock himself. He frowns; if Sherlock really has been staying “sober”, the cigarettes are acceptable, but he ought not to be drinking. The addiction pathways are far too similar. On the other hand, surely Sherlock would have topped up the bottles afterwards. He feels confident ruling out Mrs Evans entirely, both on character grounds, and because Sherlock would have been unable to resist commenting upon it, so most likely it’s been used in the service of calming Sherlock’s more agitated clients. Mycroft automatically follows the train of thought through to its conclusion, even though at this point it hardly matters. He pours himself two fingers of whiskey, neat, and sits back down to sip at it.

An untidy stack of Sherlock’s case files is within arm’s length, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft reaches for them. As overbearing as Sherlock might think him, the line he’s drawn between them extends to many things, including Sherlock’s privacy. His brother should be entitled to his little secrets – heaven knows Mycroft keeps enough of his own. Still, he’s here, and Sherlock isn’t, and he’s curious. Perhaps learning more about Sherlock’s work might teach him more about Sherlock himself, who he’s become. Sherlock might occasionally mention he’s concluded a successful case, but rarely supplies much detail, and at any rate Mycroft is far too busy with the welfare of the nation to concern himself overmuch with individuals.

Judging from the sample at hand, the Miller case is far more the exception than the rule; it’s a little surprising that Sherlock has even had the patience to keep on with things. The top file is devoted to a woman suspicious that her fiancé is cheating on her, and there are another two concerning husbands fearing the same about their wives. There’s a custody dispute, a potentially faked back injury, and a man apparently incensed that someone has been putting their own rubbish into his council dustbin. And even… yes… a lost toy poodle called “Muffins”, together with an uncashed cheque for £150. Sherlock’s notes also contain an engrossing wealth of observational trivia about relationships, children, pets, eating, smoking, shopping and gambling habits, drinking problems, health issues, and histories of violence that have nothing whatsoever to do with the cases. Sherlock could almost go into the blackmail line himself.

Mycroft pours himself another drink.

After draining the glass, Mycroft heads into the kitchen, which looks reassuringly free from petri dishes, Bunsen burners, and anything obviously toxic or corrosive. Sherlock’s chemistry equipment has been permanently relegated to the laundry area in the basement. Inconvenient for him, but potentially life-saving for both of them.

The fridge has been well-stocked to tide them over in Mrs Evans’ absence, with particular emphasis on seasonal fare – smoked salmon and pate, platters of cold turkey and ham, and a pan of vegetables ready for baking. There’s a glass tureen of trifle, bright with mixed berries, some poached pears, and a small pyramid of home-made mince pies. It’s enough to feed at least six, even though this year it’s just the two of them. Under the circumstances, it’s probably just as well.

None of the food looks particularly appetising right now, but Mycroft puts a mince pie and a slice of Wensleydale on a plate. He eats absent-mindedly, leaning against the edge of the counter, while his tea brews. He drinks the tea. Afterwards, he rinses the glass, plate, cup, and saucer and puts them in the dishwasher. The whisky bottle goes back into the liquor cabinet.

It’s just after eight-thirty. Over three hours, now.

He goes upstairs, intending to try and work, but instead bypasses the study entirely and climbs the second flight of stairs. He’s not entered Sherlock’s room in over six months, not since the aftermath of the 2am client visitation, when sheer aggravation had driven him there to inform Sherlock that next time if he felt he really needed to take a client at that hour, they could at the very least _keep their voices down_. Tonight Mycroft hesitates at the threshold of the open door, then enters, his footsteps suddenly louder as they transition from carpet to floorboards. The room is in darkness, but the light from the staircase is enough to see by.

Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t quite know why he’s here, or what he’s doing, only that he needs to _understand_. He takes off his shoes, straightens the covers a little, then stretches out on top of them. Lying back on the pillow, he clasps his hands behind his head, and contemplates his surroundings. The faint traces of Sherlock’s scent envelop him.

The room is a loft conversion, and the low ceiling narrows to a point above his head. To his left, the single dormer window is a rectangle of blackness only slightly relieved by the reflected glimmer of streetlights below. There’s a bedside table with reading lamp, a tallboy chest of drawers, a Queen Anne armchair, an oddly-shaped built-in wardrobe that follows the slope of the wall, and a small ensuite bathroom, all faithfully kept clean by Mrs Evans. The room is tidy, almost spartan, compared to the clutter downstairs. This is what Sherlock sees every night, what he awakens to in the morning. A place not to work, but to sleep, and perhaps dream.

He closes his eyes and imagines Sherlock lying where he is now, staring into the darkness, waiting, perhaps, for Mycroft to finally give in to his desires. For a moment of weakness that has never arrived. Mycroft retrieves the memories of their weekend away from the depths of his brain, brings them carefully into his consciousness. He imagines giving in, appearing by Sherlock’s bedside in the night, just as Sherlock had come to him those months ago. Pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s in the darkness. Maybe he’s been too stubborn, after all.

He texts Sherlock once more, the mobile’s screen casting a sudden bright beam of light: _I love you._

There’s no response, but Mycroft feels a renewed sense of hope. If only Sherlock will let him make good. Perhaps it’s the combination of wine, whiskey and darkness, or simply excessive doses of sentiment, but minutes later Mycroft drifts into a shallow, troubled sleep.

***

He dreams of pushing through a crowded high street, calling Sherlock’s name. The shops on either side are decked out in artificial snow and coloured lights, and a woman’s voice, amplified, is singing _O Come All Ye Faithful_. Sherlock has run off, as he always does, and Mycroft is searching for him, only he doesn’t know if he’s looking for a child, a teenager, or a fully-grown man. The woman’s voice swells – _joyful and triumphant_ – as he catches a glimpse of dark curly hair in the distance. He heads swiftly towards it, jostling his way through, ignoring the cries of protest around him. At last he catches hold of Sherlock’s arm, torn between irritation and relief, and begins to tell him off for running away again. He really ought to know better.

The figure turns.

It isn’t Sherlock at all.

***

Mycroft wakes to the sound of singing. Newly-roused and groggy, he instinctively looks towards the closed dormer window before realising that it’s coming from inside the house, a murmur of music drifting up the stairwell. It takes him another moment to identify the song, and then, with increasing disbelief, the singer. Not a recording, but Sherlock’s exceedingly rare and pleasant light baritone. He hasn’t heard it for years, but even at this distance its tone and timbre are unmistakeable.

It is also, quite possibly, the least likely sound Mycroft might have expected to hear, and he sits upright in the darkness and blinks a few times just to be entirely sure that he’s awake. His brain automatically matches lyrics to the familiar, soaring melody. _Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore_. Instead of the relief he should have felt at Sherlock’s return, he’s simply bewildered. He doesn’t put his shoes back on, but slips off Sherlock’s bed and pads downstairs in his stockinged feet.

The transformation in the dining room triggers a fresh surge of unreality that brings Mycroft to an abrupt halt in the doorway. Atop the long wooden table a space has been cleared amongst Sherlock’s case files and clutter for a three-foot-tall Christmas tree, fully decorated but sadly crumpled-looking, as though it had been dragged backwards through a hedge, or perhaps, Mycroft instinctively calculates, a two-foot gap between the bottom of a steel security shutter and the ground. Noticeable bare patches show where some of the golden baubles have gone missing, and one of the black plastic spokes of its supporting tripod is broken and is currently being supplemented by a book on DNA analysis. Red and green tinsel is draped across the mantelpiece and festoons the backs of the dining chairs. Sherlock has his back turned, apparently engrossed in hanging a holly wreath on one of the brass light fixtures that protrude from the far wall. It droops awkwardly to one side, a dishevelled cousin to the Christmas tree. Sherlock appears not to mind, and steps back to survey his handiwork. _Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…_

“…Sherlock?”

The singing trails off as Sherlock turns towards him with a smile that immediately sets Mycroft’s nerves on edge. Even before he sees Sherlock’s pupils, unnaturally wide and dark, he understands. What he doesn’t know is what he ought to _do_ about it at this instant except stand and stare.

“There, that’s so much better, isn’t it, I don’t know what you have against proper decorations, the place is so very dull without them.” Sherlock’s voice is rapid, almost breathless. Lying in the middle of the floor is a torn, half-empty bin bag containing what appears to be more tinsel and he darts towards it to extract another strand, silver this time. He drapes this one over the liquor cabinet, winding its edges around the handles. “Thought it might cheer the place up a bit, even the Queen has a tree, you know, and surely you’re not setting yourself above _royalty_ , brother mine. Hmmm? Isn’t this nice, just the two of us, unless of course you’ll be urgently needed at _work_ tomorrow, which you will be I expect, even if it _is_ Christmas…”

“Sherlock, _stop it_.”

Mycroft strides towards the bin bag and grips Sherlock’s wrists to prevent him from extracting any more second-hand seasonal items. Sherlock hasn’t yet removed his coat – the long Belstaff Mycroft purchased for him upon his return to London – even though his face is flushed with sweat.

“What’s the matter, Mikey?” His voice is light, almost playful. “Don’t you like it?” He looks down at where Mycroft’s hands are holding him fast, and laughs. “Typical. You only want to touch me when I _misbehave_.”

Mycroft feels frozen in position, helpless. “What did you take?” he asks.

“Oooh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“ _What did you take_?”

“Why, d’you want to try some? Might be good for you, actually, loosen you up a bit. O _high_ and mighty Mycroft. I’d love to see that.” Sherlock laughs.

“How could you do this?”

“Oh, it’s easy. A little of this, a little of that. If you’re careful enough, no one ever notices.” Sherlock looks at him pityingly. “I know you were in my room just now, I heard you coming downstairs. Tell me, did you even look in the bedside table? You didn’t, did you?”

Mycroft suddenly remembers the depleted liquor cabinet, an unmistakeable warning sign he’d brushed aside. “What do you mean?”

“I did tell you. I couldn’t _sleep_. I never could. Especially after rehab.”

Mycroft stares at him, stunned. He’d thought Sherlock noticeably calmer in these past two years, more settled than in the past, but had put it down to maturity and painful experience.

“So all this time you’ve been taking... sleeping pills? What sort? Did Mummy and Daddy realise?”

“They were originally prescribed for me, you’ll be pleased to hear – easy enough if you know the right story to tell, and doctors are so pressed for time nowadays. Although I eventually did have to get around to quite a few of them. And of course Mummy and Daddy didn’t realise, don’t be ridiculous. They were just happy that I was functional again. After rehab, I just had to be a little more careful, that’s all. Well, not all _that_ careful. You just never bothered to pay any attention.”

But it’s already clear that Sherlock hadn’t tried very hard at all. As though he’d _wanted_ Mycroft to find him out. To show Sherlock, perhaps, that he cared.

“I thought you deserved your privacy,” he tries to explain. “Not to have someone _spying_ on you all the time.”

“How very considerate.” Sherlock smiles, but the artificial warmth is fading fast. “And I only ever dabbled in the harder stuff when you were away. Or too busy to notice. Which, you’ll have to admit, was most of the time.”

“But why would you even _want_ to ‘dabble’, after…”

“After all you’ve done for me?”

“After you’d been doing so _well_.”

“What, you mean first as MI-5’s little errand boy and then as a finder of lost poodles?” The last traces of good cheer have evaporated from Sherlock’s manner. “Oh, yes, very well indeed. Investigating trivialities while my brother stages a one-man takeover of the British government. Don’t _patronise_ me, Mycroft. The Miller case was the one interesting thing that fell into my lap, my chance to break something that _mattered_ , and you couldn’t even let me have that, could you?”

“Sherlock…”

“Shut up, Mycroft. If I have to hear one more thing from you about what I must do or can’t do or shouldn’t do, god help me…”

Mycroft kisses him.

It’s completely, utterly the wrong thing to do, an act both irresponsible and selfish. Sherlock is nowhere near in his right mind, and upset into the bargain. But it’s all Mycroft has left. Beneath him, Sherlock stills in surprise, but then reciprocates, his lips slightly parted against Mycroft’s own. Sherlock’s breath is sour, his mouth dry. It doesn’t matter.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft says, his hands still lightly looped around Sherlock’s wrists. There are a million pressing things to discuss, given all that’s happened this evening, but right now this one admission is more important than any of them. “You were right. In everything you said. I’ve treated you… badly.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Sherlock shakes his head as though to clear it. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, earlier,” he says. “I already _said_ I’d do what you wanted.”

“Yes.” Mycroft releases him to stroke a hand down his cheek, tracing a path through sweat and dust. “I heard you.”

Sherlock gazes at him steadily, his pupils still dark, enormous. “I’m hallucinating this entire conversation, aren’t I?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe we both are.”

Mycroft leans in to kiss him again, with more certainty than he feels, as Sherlock’s arms tentatively wrap around him at last. In the distance, Mycroft can hear the echoing chimes of Big Ben, striking the hour. They reach the count of twelve, then fade softly away.


	15. 2005

At first, Mycroft wants only to be able to touch Sherlock freely, to stroke his hair and continue planting soft kisses on his mouth for as long as he can. But as soon as Sherlock has fully registered the terms of Mycroft’s capitulation, he’s pushing him back against the wall, kissing him with frenzied intensity, without finesse. Sherlock’s erection is already hard and hot against Mycroft’s thigh, but neither of them move to do anything about it.

After a time Sherlock pulls away, in between kisses, and Mycroft has only a second to stare at him quizzically before Sherlock grabs hold of his arm and pulls him forward, using Mycroft’s own momentum to spin him around and force him against the wall, face first. Mycroft gasps more from shock than pain, even though the way Sherlock is twisting his arm behind his back is undeniably painful. Then Sherlock is pushing up against him, his erection a hard pressure against the seam of Mycroft’s trousers.

“I wanted,” he says, his breath hot by Mycroft’s ear, “to make you do it, earlier. To make you do… anything I wanted.”

He might be referring to their argument over Magnussen, but his words have the force of years behind them. Mycroft holds perfectly still, breathing in and out, deciding. He can think of at least three different ways of breaking Sherlock’s hold, all of which would inflict various forms of damage upon Sherlock – bloody nose, bruised tibia, broken metatarsals – or upon Mycroft himself – sprained wrist, dislocated elbow, wrenched shoulder, fractured arm. But he has no desire to cause further pain to either of them.

“I know,” Mycroft says softly.

He deliberately relaxes into the hold, ignoring his aching tendons, letting Sherlock feel his surrender. Sherlock is rubbing against him, panting slightly, and Mycroft closes his eyes, presses his cheek against the smooth plaster of the wall. It’s slightly less humiliating than the floor, at least. He feels Sherlock’s lips on the side of his throat, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth. Mycroft moans, but offers no resistance. Then suddenly the weight against him lifts, the grip on his arm eases, and he’s free.

He turns around slowly, rubbing at his shoulder and wrist. Sherlock does not apologise, but Mycroft sees it in his eyes.

“Upstairs, then,” Sherlock says at last, shrugging off his coat and leaving it in a puddled heap in the middle of the floor. He heads unerringly to Mycroft’s room, Mycroft’s bed.

Mycroft’s conscience still troubles him, but weighed against it is the knowledge that it’s something Sherlock truly wants, even now, even after everything Mycroft has done. By rights, Sherlock should hate him. It baffles Mycroft how sure, how constant Sherlock has been in this desire above all others. Perhaps he’s only kept Sherlock’s interest all these years by being the one thing Sherlock could not have just for the asking. If that’s the case, then he’s taken the wrong path from the beginning. Perhaps if he’d been the one to pursue the issue as soon as Sherlock came of age, Sherlock would quickly have grown bored with him and moved on. And Mycroft might even have done the same. By denying himself as well, Mycroft had only succeeded in holding out to Sherlock the possibility that _one day_ he might change his mind, and perhaps that had been the cruellest act of all.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs over and over, until Sherlock tells him in no uncertain terms to shut up. They’re naked now, lying side by side atop the sheets, their legs intertwining, creating a furnace of heat in the cold room. Mycroft tilts his head back, baring his throat as Sherlock kisses him like a man possessed. Something in Mycroft’s mind finally releases its hold, and the memories of their weekend away come flooding back, all at once. The sensations are overwhelming. Regret, relief. Desire. In some ways Sherlock is a stranger in his arms, his eyes too dark, his movements sharp and jerky, his body unnaturally slippery with sweat, but in others he’s unbearably familiar – his face, his voice, his smell.

He lets Sherlock press him down onto his back, and take them both in hand. Mycroft is still only half-hard, but Sherlock appears already on the verge of coming. His eyes are shut, and his movements already have the edge of desperation to them. Mycroft remembers the long-ago phone call where Sherlock had described both of them together, just like this, on Mycroft’s bed. Given the way Sherlock sounded that night, he wonders how much of it Sherlock remembers, and how much he will remember of tonight. It’s piling wrong on top of wrong to give in to Sherlock in this state. Mycroft should say _no_ , and _stop_ , and _wait_. But he only holds his breath and watches as Sherlock’s face contorts, and he comes over Mycroft’s chest and belly. His moans are loud, uninhibited, making the blood rush immediately to Mycroft’s cock.

Sherlock collapses into his arms, breathing in long shuddering gasps, and Mycroft ignores his own arousal to draw him close, heedless of the mess between them. Mycroft can feel the frantic thudding of Sherlock’s heart even as the blood pounds in his own ears. He gently pushes Sherlock onto his side and wraps his arms around him. kissing the nape of Sherlock’s neck before burying his face in Sherlock’s hair, which smells of shampoo and sweat. Mycroft’s cock presses lightly against the base of Sherlock’s spine, the curve of his arse, but right now he needs nothing but the warmth of Sherlock curled safely beside him.

It quickly becomes obvious that Sherlock has other plans as he begins pushing back against Mycroft, as though to deliberately fuel his arousal.

“Shhh.” Mycroft runs a firm hand over Sherlock’s hip, trying to calm him down. He’s unsettled by the twitchy, restless movements of Sherlock’s legs as he thrusts back against him.

Even though he came barely minutes ago, Sherlock makes a small, unsatisfied sound of desire. “Oh,” he says. “Need you to fuck me. Come _on_ , Mycroft.”

“No,” Mycroft says. “I don’t… I don’t have anything we can use.”

Mycroft hasn’t had any real need for lube since returning to London – his own hand being about as much stimulation as he gets nowadays, and something he regards almost more as punishment than pleasure. Of course, there are plenty of viable substitutes in the house, but what Mycroft actually means is that Sherlock is still clearly intoxicated and that surely they’ve _done quite enough_ for now.

Such subtleties are clearly wasted on Sherlock. He only huffs in exasperation, and slides off the bed, the sound of his footfalls marking his passage upstairs. There’s a soft slide and thump as a drawer opens and shuts, and Mycroft thinks unavoidably of Sherlock with his hand around his cock, gasping silently as he comes. Of course he must have done it, or something much like it, but during the past few years Mycroft has tried to push away any thoughts of Sherlock as a sexual being, not wanting to consider it any more than he wants to think about his PA or his driver or any of his agents in that way. It would only be needless distraction.

Sherlock returns, almost throwing the tube of lubricant at Mycroft before getting back onto the bed. He lies on his stomach, tilting his hips up expectantly. Mycroft hesitates, desperately seeking an excuse that will not be interpreted as outright refusal.

“Do you have condoms as well?” he asks. “Otherwise, this isn’t – it’s not safe.”

Sherlock glares at Mycroft over his shoulder. “You never worried whether it was safe _before_.”

“That was a long time ago _._ ”

“So, is there something you needed to tell me?”

“No,” Mycroft says. He’s confident enough that he poses no threat to Sherlock, health-wise, but he knows nothing of Sherlock’s recent sexual history, and Sherlock’s drug use automatically puts him at high risk for all manner of things. “But…”

“What you mean is, you don’t trust me.” Sherlock sounds remarkably petulant, considering the circumstances. “I was tested for everything three years ago – I know you’ve seen the reports – and I haven’t done anything _risky_ since.“

Mycroft’s silence suffices for speech.

“I haven’t _injected_ anything,” Sherlock clarifies. ”And I’m sure you’ve looked.”

It’s true that Mycroft has already taken the opportunity to scan Sherlock’s body and found no track marks, but occasional usage would only leave a pinprick, no more trace than a blood draw. Hence the results had been inconclusive.

“But you’re still… high,” Mycroft says. Sherlock’s condition has reduced him to stating the obvious. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Sherlock glares at him over his shoulder. “You never think _anything_ is a good idea unless it’s been analysed, discussed, planned, reviewed, and then analysed all over again.”

“That’s not true,” Mycroft says, but the accusation stings all the same. It’s true that there’s little room for spontaneity in the world he inhabits, and with good reason. Actions have consequences, and people’s lives often depend on the decisions he makes. He already feels far older than his thirty-six years.

“Fine, then,” Sherlock says. He drags himself to a sitting position and plucks the tube from Mycroft’s hand. He puts his hand on Mycroft’s chest, pushing him back down on the bed, and straddles him. Mycroft has another moment of disorientation; the drugs have left Sherlock’s beauty untouched, but stripped away his inhibitions, his uncertainty. Briskly, Sherlock squeezes lube onto his palm, and reaches for Mycroft’s cock. The initial shock of the cool gel is quickly replaced the heat of Sherlock’s hand.

Mycroft’s gesture of protest is weak, unformed, and after a moment he simply lies back and lets it happen. But he tenses in alarm when Sherlock stops, and shifts further up the bed, his intentions horribly apparent. Sherlock has prepared Mycroft, but done nothing for himself.

“Sherlock, no,” Mycroft says. He struggles to prop himself up on his elbows, hindered by Sherlock’s weight on his midsection. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock’s laugh is short, barbed. “It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think?”

“Let me…” Mycroft says, gesturing, but Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders force him to lie down, be still. Even at this point it would be possible for Mycroft to buck him off, but he fears Sherlock would regard it as another rejection. Even as he hesitates, Sherlock carefully lines himself up with Mycroft’s cock, and _pushes_ , a slow but relentless pressure. Mycroft gasps as his cock breaches the tight ring of muscle, the shock of pleasure warring with apprehension. Sherlock’s face is twisted in pain, and he moans, panting, but there’s an odd, detached serenity to his suffering. As though it were simply another sensation to be processed.

“Sherlock, don’t. Please.” For a long minute they both hold very still as Sherlock’s breathing slows, and Mycroft can almost believe that he’ll be listened to. Then Sherlock pushes himself down a little more, sweat plastering his curls to his forehead, and stops again. Mycroft bites his lip. It’s been far too long since he’s had anything like this, Sherlock is unbelievably, almost unbearably, tight, and it’s impossible to will the sensations away.

“Fuck, that hurts,” Sherlock says, with grim satisfaction.

Mycroft is silent, both aroused and appalled by Sherlock’s determination. He attempts to delay Sherlock a little by pulling him down into a kiss, which proves a worthwhile diversion for both of them. Mycroft runs his hands up Sherlock’s back, through his damp hair, before Sherlock pulls away again. He moves a little further down upon Mycroft, shifting his position slightly, and _oh_. Mycroft can feel the sudden shiver of pleasure that runs through Sherlock’s entire body. His gasp mirrors Sherlock’s own.

It’s a little better after that, easier for both of them, and soon Mycroft is fully encased in tight heat. Once settled, Sherlock rocks slowly back and forth against him, seemingly lost in sensation. The stimulation of his movements is gentle yet constant, enough to keep Mycroft hard, but not yet desperate for release. He tries to relax enough to enjoy it, but his eyes stay focused on Sherlock’s face, which still shifts between pain and pleasure. He can’t stop himself from touching Sherlock everywhere he can reach, his face, his arms, his chest, feeling the possessiveness that he’s done his best to deny. But every time he reaches to stroke Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock pushes his hand away.

“Can you?” Sherlock asks.

It’s not the way he would have chosen, but by bending his knees slightly and holding Sherlock’s hips to keep him in place, Mycroft is able to build a slow rhythm. As the pleasure grows, he deliberately lets it show in his eyes, his face, lets Sherlock see, for once, how much Mycroft truly desires him. Sherlock meets his thrusts gently at first, then harder, and then some barrier between them falls, and they’re rutting desperately, frantically against each other. Mycroft hears his own cries, harsh and breathless, mingling with Sherlock’s groans. He babbles, first apologising to Sherlock, then telling him how much he loves him, and comes in a long, blinding rush, thrusting deep into Sherlock’s body.

He feels more than sees Sherlock stroking himself the rest of the way to orgasm. Sherlock’s muscles tighten in rippling pulses as his fingers dig into Mycroft’s flesh. He collapses over Mycroft, and for long moments there’s simply the struggle to breathe. Mycroft clings to Sherlock and pretends to believe everything is all right.

They doze for a few minutes, but Mycroft is already part-rested from his nap and too worked up for proper sleep, while Sherlock looks exhausted, but remains fidgety and restless. He’s been forbidden to smoke in the house, but when he goes downstairs naked and returns with a lighter and a pack of cigarettes – Tor Turkish in black-and-white– Mycroft only reaches out his hand for one. Sherlock passes it to him with narrowed eyes.

Mycroft hasn’t touched a cigarette since his teens – once he’d established to his own satisfaction that they were habit-forming, expensive, and interfered with his senses of smell and taste, he’d been quick in giving them up. But he still remembers the sharpness the nicotine rush lent his thoughts, while at the same time soothing his nerves. Right now, he’s sorely in need of both clarity and calm, and he leans forward to touch the tip of his cigarette to the flame Sherlock offers. He notes that Sherlock’s pupils are still dilated, but less so than before, and some of his grace of movement has returned.

Mycroft leans back against the headboard and takes a quick drag – too quick. He chokes slightly, and Sherlock laughs at him. It sounds genuinely amused, rather than manic, and Mycroft doesn’t mind. He exhales, tries again. Better this time. He sighs as the chemicals hit his bloodstream. Sherlock leans against him, sweat-slick, nursing a cigarette of his own, and Mycroft kisses him softly between one exhale and the next. Mycroft feels as rumpled as the sheets, stained and filthy; the room smells of sex and smoke. The guilt is still there, but a sense of regret is proving elusive.

Suddenly Sherlock is on his feet, cigarette in hand, and his gaze lights on the small sommerso glass geode bowl atop Mycroft’s chest of drawers. He takes it up, briskly dumps Mycroft’s cufflinks out onto the dresser, then ashes his cigarette. Mycroft winces as dirty grey-white flecks smear the translucent purple base. Sherlock brings the bowl back to bed, placing it on the bedside table. He blows another long stream of smoke, and eyes Mycroft curiously. “Are you quite all right?”

Resigned, Mycroft leans over to use the impromptu ashtray for himself. He’s fairly sure that it’s he who should be asking Sherlock that question, rather than the other way around. “Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t yet said a word yet about any of… this. I thought surely you’d have worked up a decent lecture by now.”

“Is that what you want?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s what you do.”

“I hardly have the right, any more.” He finds it surprisingly difficult to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“You never did.”

Mycroft swallows the rebuke in silence. Sherlock has never, will never, understand what it is to be responsible for anyone besides himself. And at times even that seems almost too much to ask of him. Whereas Mycroft hardly remembers a time when he knew anything else.

“No lectures. Not while you’re still… intoxicated.” The bedside clock indicates it’s almost 1.30am, and Mycroft smiles, a little grimly. “And besides, it’s Christmas.”


	16. 2005

Christmas morning passes in a haze of unreality. Thankfully, Sherlock shows no significant ill-effects from his bout of “recreational” drug usage except for a profound lethargy coupled with the inability to sleep. They change the sheets after Sherlock has sweated through them, and spend the next few hours in bed, talking and touching. Even though it’s been years since they shared such intimacies, that long-ago weekend away has remained whole and untouched in Mycroft’s memories. Having Sherlock in his bed again feels strange yet achingly familiar, as though all the time in between were only a momentary interruption. Like passing from a dream to reality, or back again.

As promised, for the moment Mycroft refrains from pressing Sherlock on the details of exactly what he’s been taking, and when. Instead the conversation drifts as freely and aimlessly as the smoke from their cigarettes, through Christmases past, innocent remembrance of fossils and chemistry sets inevitably wending its way towards present-day political and forensics developments. Mycroft is exasperated by the recent ruling that forbids “coerced evidence” from terror suspects to be admitted in court, while Sherlock is indecently enthused about the repeal of double jeopardy laws,  meaning fresh opportunities to bring acquitted murderers to justice. Regardless of the subject under discussion, Mycroft is unable to stop himself from kissing Sherlock at frequent intervals, his fingers trailing lightly over whatever bare skin he can reach, and Sherlock accepts his attentions without protest. He parts his lips softly to Mycroft’s kisses, and settles comfortably into his arms.

Inevitably, Sherlock’s hand ends up straying back to Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft turns towards him, their legs entwining. This time they take things far more slowly, sometimes breaking off entirely to explore further afield before returning to fuel each other’s arousal once more. The occasional hesitation in Sherlock’s movements shows that he’s now suffering the consequences from what he’d – they’d – done earlier. There’s no sign of blood on the sheets, but the thought still bothers Mycroft immensely. He’s quick to forestall all threat of further damage by moving down Sherlock’s body to take his cock in his mouth.

The taste and scent of Sherlock immediately floods his senses, and he devotes his full attention to licking and sucking, taking his cues from Sherlock’s soft gasps. He feels Sherlock’s hand tangle briefly in his hair before reaching down to clutch at his shoulder. Mycroft takes his time in this, too, periodically drawing away to swirl his tongue around the glans before returning to envelop Sherlock in his mouth. One of Mycroft’s hands works the base of Sherlock’s cock gently as Sherlock’s moans grow louder, and the grip on his shoulder tightens. With a few tight thrusts of his hips, Sherlock arches off the bed and comes, spilling pulse after pulse across Mycroft’s tongue. Mycroft relaxes his throat and swallows it all down, holds Sherlock in his mouth until he softens.

Afterwards he gathers Sherlock in his arms once more, letting him catch his breath. One of Sherlock’s hands is already reaching weakly for him, but he brushes it away. There’s no rush. He’s happy to keep watch as Sherlock dozes fitfully for a few minutes before returning to wakefulness. When Sherlock’s eyes flicker open, they’re still slightly guarded, as though unwilling to believe too much too soon, but Mycroft can’t blame him for that. He’s not quite sure he believes it himself.

Around ten am, Mycroft’s stomach gently reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since the meagre snack last night that served as dinner. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock declares himself not the slightest bit hungry, but Mycroft persuades him to come downstairs anyway. Newly-clad in dressing gowns –Mycroft’s a royal blue, Sherlock’s several shades lighter – they examine the contents of the fridge as though considering a matter of national importance.

Sherlock selects a mince pie direct from the plate and munches it like an apple while Mycroft sets the cast-iron frying pan onto blue flame and glazes it with butter. He whisks eggs in a bowl while slices of sizzling ham scent the air, and Sherlock puts on toast without needing to be asked. The ritual of Sunday breakfast – Mrs Evans’ customary day off – evolved during the first year of Sherlock’s move back to London, only to disappear once Sherlock started working for himself, sleeping late and rendering the formal dining table unfit for purpose. However, neither of them have forgotten the steps of the dance, and by the time the ham, tomato, and scrambled eggs are ready ( _aux fine herbs_ for Mycroft, plain for Sherlock), the toast has been buttered and sliced into triangles, and the tea correctly brewed. Although one crucial element has changed. As Mycroft sets the trays, Sherlock leans over to retrieve cutlery from a drawer, and their elbows brush. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft leans into the kiss Sherlock offers him.

The ludicrously dishevelled Christmas tree is still sitting in the middle of the formal dining table amidst Sherlock’s books and files, a sobering reminder of the night before. Mycroft gently removes it from the table and props it in a corner, then clears a third of the table by herding Sherlock’s work into the remaining space. One of the folders he picks up has _Miller_ scrawled along one edge. Mycroft longs to shred it immediately, but instead slips it under a pile of others, out of sight.

Behind him, Sherlock brings out the first tray, his eyes flicking over the cleared space without comment. He sets the tray down and unloads it as Mycroft returns to the kitchen for his own. Instead of sitting across from Sherlock, Mycroft sits at the table’s head, and as he pulls in his chair, his left ankle comes to rest gently against Sherlock’s right. Today there are no newspapers to hide behind, and the former flow of conversation seems to have deserted them, so they eat in near silence. However, the mere sight of Sherlock voluntarily pushing egg into his mouth brings Mycroft a quiet sense of satisfaction. He remembers, suddenly, a long-ago childhood breakfast at the battered oak table, and a six-year-old Sherlock sullenly resisting their mother’s efforts to make him eat “just one more bite”. Mycroft’s swallows with difficulty and shifts his leg away. Sherlock glances at him, eyes narrowing.

“What?” Sherlock says.

Mycroft shakes his head, and continues eating while Sherlock ostentatiously turns his head towards the starburst clock on the wall.

“Congratulations,” Sherlock announces. “You managed almost eleven hours without freaking out.”

“I am not,” Mycroft says, after a steadying sip of tea, “ _freaking out_.”

“Oh? What would you call it, then?”

“You’ve never ha d any idea what it’s like for me, Sherlock. I watched you grow up. I _remember_ … “

“What does it matter? I _remember_ , too. Growing up. You were a rubbish big brother.”

It’s merely Sherlock’s attempt at humour, something Mycroft understands instantly, and yet it stabs unerringly to the heart of his fears. “Technically, I still am. A rubbish big brother.”

Sherlock puts his fork down mutinously. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Nevertheless.” Mycroft glances at Sherlock’s efforts, fights an internal battle with himself, and loses. “Do finish the eggs, at least. How are they?”

“ _Fine_.” Sherlock scrapes up the remainder into a single oversized mouthful and chews extravagantly. There’s still a slice of ham, most of a tomato, and half a piece of toast on his plate when Sherlock’s cutlery lands on top of them with a clatter.

Mycroft winces, and sets his own fork down to reach for Sherlock’s hand. “I didn’t say I’d changed my mind.”

Sherlock’s demeanour softens, although he still looks doubtful. While the immediate effects of his drug use seem to have dissipated, his pupils are still too wide, too dark. The sight reminds Mycroft that despite living together he hasn’t seen all that much of Sherlock these past two years. Perhaps an hour or two or a day, usually in the evenings, sometimes a little more at weekends, but then there were also the overseas trips, up to a week at a time, leaving Sherlock to fend for himself. Mycroft thinks of all the missed mornings, and wonders on exactly how many of them Sherlock’s pupils might have looked exactly as they do now.

No matter how strongly Sherlock might have been been attracted to the rush of illicit drug-taking, Mycroft had thought that the ugly repercussions would have been enough to persuade Sherlock never to return to them. How naive Mycroft has been, how trusting. But he’s as much as given his word not to chide Sherlock for it today, and so he holds his tongue and eats the last of his toast. Sherlock leans back in his chair, watching him eat, and his leg butts insistently against Mycroft’s own. This time Mycroft doesn’t pull away.

After a perfunctory clean-up in the kitchen, Sherlock drags Mycroft into the living area and turns on the television. They’ll need to phone their parents in a little while, but the five-hour time difference means they ought to wait at least another half-hour or so. Mycroft sits down one end of the sofa while Sherlock sprawls over the rest of it, his head in Mycroft’s lap, one hand holding the remote. He flicks insistently through channels, bringing up a selection of Christmas fare – a historical documentary, an American sitcom, a Blue Peter special featuring twirling dancers bedecked with tinsel, the animated _Alice in Wonderland_.

During Mycroft’s childhood, their parents habitually had the set switched on for most of Christmas afternoon, and there’s a certain comforting familiarity about it all. He expects there’ll be _Top of the Pops_ a bit later on, and then the Queen will commandeer all channels at three o’clock, followed eventually by evening news and assorted comedy Christmas specials containing questionable amounts of humour. Mycroft doesn’t anticipate watching any of it, but it’ll be _there_. It’s traditional. He smooths a hand gently through Sherlock’s hair as the Cheshire Cat disappears, leaving only its smile.

“Was there something you were hoping to find, Sherlock? I’m sure there’s a guide in the newspaper.”

Sherlock abruptly switches off the television and turns his face up towards Mycroft. “I can’t stand it. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. You might as well get it over with.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t like you at all. None of it.” Sherlock drags himself to a sitting position, clasping his hands around his knees, and glares at Mycroft accusingly. “As soon as whatever’s wrong with you has worn off, I know exactly how this is going to go. First you’re going to lecture me about the meth, and then the pills, probably adding in something about nicking the tree and decorations along the way. Then you’ll point out that I tried to blackmail you, making me every bit as bad as Magnussen, and conclude that this was all a terrible mistake and we mustn’t do it ever again. Just like last time. So you might as well get on with it. Make it a Christmas to remember.” Sherlock’s tone is acidic, his face already set against the promise of pain.

“It would seem I hardly need to,” Mycroft says gently. “You’ve already said it all for me.”

“There it is, then.” Sherlock’s mouth tightens, and he scrambles off the sofa with a dramatic sweep of his dressing gown. Mycroft ruins his exit by pulling sharply at the back, throwing Sherlock off balance and making him stagger.

“Sit down, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, then adds, “Please.”

Sherlock obeys, his arms crossed like a sulking child, which makes Mycroft’s position more untenable than ever. Still, he forges ahead.

“Your assessment of my…  concerns is entirely correct. Especially regarding the drugs. But that can wait. And you did try to use Magnussen against me, but you had good reason. As I’ve already said, you were right.” Sherlock lifts his head to stare at Mycroft, forcing him to look away. “No matter how I might have felt about you… about us… I didn’t want to entertain even the possibility of you distracting me, destroying my career. It was so much easier not to think about it at all. The things I couldn’t have.”

He rests a tentative hand on Sherlock’s forearm, and Sherlock doesn’t shrug him off, but doesn’t respond either. Mycroft takes a deep breath. “But I’ve always wanted you, Sherlock – despite everything. And as baffling as it seems, you appear to have maintained… a reciprocal interest in me.”

Sherlock snorts. “Only you could make sex sound like a _trade agreement_.”

“My point is that you’re wrong on the last count. It might well be a mistake, and very likely is, but… I’m willing to continue. Assuming you still want the same thing.”

Mycroft waits in silence, the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown warm under his fingers, until Sherlock heaves a deep sigh. “And why should I believe you?”

“You’ll still have to spend some time sleeping in your own bed, for the sake of appearances,” Mycroft says. “We can’t afford to lose Mrs Evans, unless you intend to take up housekeeping, in which case I fear for our combined health, safety, and general well-being.” Sherlock looks unamused, but at least appears to be listening. “I can ask her to come in at seven instead of five, and have breakfast at work. Even if it does mean using the staff canteen.” Mycroft grimaces, and Sherlock’s face finally softens.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“But it will look decidedly odd if I suddenly start changing my own bed linen for no apparent reason,” Mycroft continues. “So I’m afraid that may place rather severe constraints on any future activities you may have had in mind.”

Sherlock’s expression reveals that for all his supposed doubts about Mycroft’s sincerity, he hasn’t properly considered the matter himself. No doubt he’ll blame Mycroft for putting him at a disadvantage, yet again.

“Well, it doesn’t always have to be the _bed_ ,” Sherlock manages, but that isn’t the point, and he knows it. “Perhaps a hotel room.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “That strikes me as even more risky. One chance acquaintance or sighting, and there’s simply no good explanation for it, at least if we stayed in London. And,” he adds delicately, “you remember what happened last time we went away. Magnussen is just about manageable, but I don’t know if we would get so lucky again.”

 “I’d hardly call it _lucky_.” Sherlock’s expression has darkened. “Well then, what about the private rooms at your impending club for the terminally dull? I noticed you’d allocated some space upstairs on the plans.”

“Perhaps possible, now and then, but I envisage it will take at least six months to complete the initial renovations. Also, such establishments do require a large staff to maintain, which rather invites internal gossip. I suspect that having co-founded the place, my personal doings might not entirely escape notice.” Mycroft considers, then smiles wryly. “Although it might resolve my future breakfast problems. Assuming we hire a decent chef.”

Sherlock looks decidedly unimpressed by this silver lining. “So what you’re saying is that it’s _still_ impossible. Just in different words.”

“I was merely inviting you to consider the myriad difficulties of the situation. Which you’ve clearly not done up until now.”

“If you were really so smart, you’d have thought of _something_.”

No doubt Sherlock intends it as mockery, but Mycroft is prepared. “Yes, I’ve concluded that in order to make this work, I’m going to have to find myself a boyfriend.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock turns on him, looking more outraged than ever.

“What do you think we should call him?”

“Mycroft…”

Mycroft sighs at Sherlock’s continuing inability to grasp the patently obvious. “If Mrs Evans believes that I have embarked on a relationship, it’s unlikely she will question any indications of sexual activity, or unusual changes in routine. She never need meet the man in question – the fact of his existence should suffice. A name, a plausible history, possibly a framed picture, if absolutely necessary. Do you follow?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re right, of course. I stand duly corrected,” Mycroft says, leaning back on the sofa. ”Let’s go with _your_ plan.”

He waits in silence as Sherlock stares at him for long, tense moments, then scowls. “Sebastian.”

“No. I’m sorry,” Mycroft says, mock-sorrowfully. “I could never date a man called _Sebastian_.”

They spend a whimsical half hour constructing Charles (Charlie) Whitfield, a thirty-two-year old civil servant from the Cabinet Office. He’s from an upper-middle class family, schooled at Cambridge, and coincidentally around six foot tall with dark wavy hair. Sherlock spins fantastical myths surrounding their initial meeting, including Mycroft almost being run over by a taxi carrying late-for-an-appointment Charlie, a chance conversation during the interval of _Rigoletto_ at the Royal Opera House, covert glances over a polished table at 10 Downing Street, and Charlie’s secret life moonlighting as a male prostitute. Mycroft vetoes the lot in favour of a simple work relationship that slowly became something more. Mrs Evans was chosen for her taciturn nature, and is unlikely to pry too deeply, but any necessary improvisation will work better from a solid basis.

By the time they run out of steam, Sherlock’s ruffled feathers appear soothed and he finally seems convinced of Mycroft’s sincerity. He lays a hand on Mycroft’s thigh, and tilts his chin up in what Mycroft recognises as an invitation. Mycroft lingers in the softness of his mouth, pulling him close.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Sherlock says.

“Soon. “ Mycroft stands up regretfully. “It’s getting on, and Mummy and Daddy will be expecting us to call before they have to leave for Aunt Dorothea’s.”

While video calls via the internet have recently become possible, their parents lack both the enthusiasm and bandwidth for such technological breakthroughs, and so the Christmas phone call is an entirely traditional event. Mycroft locates the cordless phone, sits back down on the sofa beside Sherlock and punches in the numbers.

“Hello?” Mummy answers, in the peculiarly loud voice Mycroft always associates with her long-distance conversations. It’s clear she’s been expecting their call, or perhaps one from a slightly deaf acquaintance. For a whimsical moment Mycroft considers impersonating the latter to make a point, and then abandons the idea out of self-preservation.

“Merry Christmas, Mummy,” he says dutifully. ”And how’s the weather there today? Horrendously warm, I imagine.”

“Yes, it’s a perfectly _lovely_ morning,” Mummy says, with such firmness that Mycroft can almost see the steely glint in her eye. Sherlock is already smirking.

“I’m sure,” he concedes, and from there they segue even further into the predictable. No, it’s not too cold in London today, nor is it snowing. Yes, Mrs Evans has prepared them plenty of food for Christmas, and to see them through her holiday. Yes, it’s even colder in Scotland than in England, and it could well be snowing there (Mycroft doesn’t bother explaining that Mrs Evans has actually gone to Spain, where her daughter lives). They’ll be pleased to hear that Daddy is well, although he still gets colds, even in the heat. Mummy’s taken up golf to keep him company, but will never get used to the warnings about alligators – would never have to worry about such things in England, good heavens, no – but is likewise well. No, neither of them have opened the presents Mummy sent over (a half-truth: Mycroft hasn’t, but Sherlock did the same day the parcel arrived in the post). Yes, Mycroft is fine, and no, he’s not working today or tomorrow, but he’ll go back on the 27th. Yes, Sherlock is also fine, and still doing his investigative work, keeping busy. He tries not to wince at the reminder.

“Here, why don’t you speak to him yourself,” Mycroft adds, and pushes the phone into Sherlock’s hand before either he or Mummy can object. Sherlock glares daggers at him even as he greets Mummy with a creditable pretence of civility.

It’s Mycroft’s turn to amuse himself deducing Mummy’s side of the conversation from Sherlock’s responses, hardly difficult under the circumstances. With admirable restraint of the kind shown only to Mummy – and occasionally, Daddy – Sherlock answers questions about his health, his eating habits, his smoking habits, the continuing success of his work, and something along the lines of whether Mycroft is looking after him (the most likely reason for Sherlock to inform Mummy that he’s _almost thirty_ and doesn’t require a babysitter). The burden of Mummy’s regular phone calls inevitably falls on Mycroft, so she’s clearly taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to interrogate Sherlock for herself.

After almost three minutes Sherlock’s patience evaporates, and he shoves the phone back at Mycroft right in the middle of one of Mummy’s questions, which is left to Mycroft to field. It’s something only Sherlock could get away with. Switching tack effortlessly, Mummy launches into an account of who they expect to see at Aunt Dorothea’s today and the latest doings of their extended family, during which Mycroft slumps back against the sofa, shuts his eyes and makes desperate sounds of acknowledgement. Sherlock offers no sympathy at all, but takes the opportunity to continue using Mycroft’s lap as a pillow.

Eventually, Mummy runs out of relatives (with Mrs Hudson thrown in for good measure), promises to pass on their love to everyone (even though neither of them have offered it) and passes the phone to Daddy, who is mercifully brief. They both wish him a Merry Christmas, he responds with his usual warm sentiments, and then it’s over. Mycroft pushes the cut-off button and sets the phone down with a sigh of relief as Sherlock grins up at him. He runs a hand affectionately through Sherlock’s hair, and for a moment they’re simply brothers again, united in familial suffering.

“Now we really _should_ go back to bed,” Mycroft says at last, holding up a regretful hand before Sherlock can respond, “and get some sleep.” What with one thing and another, he’s slept less than four hours out of the last thirty-two, and the soporific effects of food and conversation are quickly dulling the edges of his consciousness.

Sherlock makes a face, but gets up obediently, and Mycroft trails him upstairs to the bedroom. The bed is still unmade, the sheets rumpled, and the room smells of sex, smoke and Sherlock. It’s a sobering reminder. Mycroft hesitates before taking off his dressing gown and crawling into bed beside Sherlock, pressing up against Sherlock’s back and slipping an arm around his waist. He suddenly misses the safe, comforting flannel of his pyjamas, as though having the fabric between them would somehow make everything right again, restore the innocence of his motives.

“Shhh,” Sherlock says, twisting his head around briefly. “I can hear you thinking.”

Mycroft grimaces, but says nothing, willing his muscles to relax. He can tell that Sherlock is doing his best to lie still, but the speed and depth of his breathing giving him away.

“You really should get some sleep,” Mycroft says. “You need it even more than I do.”

“I can’t.” Sherlock twists around in his arms. “I never could. Not without…” He hesitates, and glances briefly towards the ceiling.

“Not today. Please.” It appals Mycroft to think of how long Sherlock has been taking sleeping pills under his very roof. He regrets, now, his decision to give Sherlock his freedom and privacy, just one more error of judgement to add to his ever-growing list.

They lie there in silence for a while, but Sherlock is twitchy, restless. Nevertheless, Mycroft is halfway towards unconsciousness when Sherlock’s voice rouses him.

“Mycroft,” he says softly, his face still turned away, “I know I shouldn’t… have done that.”

It’s not entirely clear whether he’s referring to the attempted blackmail, or the drugs, or even abandoning the earlier conversation with Mummy. However, none of it is important right now.

“It’s all right,” Mycroft says. “Just try to sleep.”

“Tell me a story, then.”

The request hangs awkwardly between them, with Sherlock’s bare back pressed sweat-damp against his chest and the smell of smoke in the air. And yet it’s a request Mycroft could never refuse.

“What would you like to hear?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever you like.”

“Very well.” Mycroft considers the stock of stories Sherlock used to enjoy, mostly concerning explorers and pirates, mixed with an assortment of myths and folk tales and fables. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was a great inventor named Daedalus, and his son, Icarus…”

The words come slowly at first, hampered by Mycroft’s exhaustion, but gradually the familiar tale shapes itself in the quiet space of the room. The pair’s imprisonment by King Minos on the island of Crete, and Daedalus’ brilliant improvisation with twine, feathers and wax. The leap of faith that sends them soaring, together, into the sky, and then the brief, breathtaking moments of freedom before the tragedy of the fall. Icarus’ desperate cries for help even as the waves drag him under, and Daedalus swooping down, frantic, unable to save him. Daedalus’ arrival in Sicily, alone.

Mycroft’s voice tapers off, regretting his choice of story, but no protest is forthcoming from Sherlock, and when Mycroft kisses him on the shoulder he only murmurs and shifts, already lost in the depths of dreams. How irresponsible Daedalus had been, how careless. Knowing Icarus’ character, perhaps he should have made the second pair of wings in a less streamlined shape, or tethered the boy to himself with a length of rope so that he could only fly so far ahead, and no further. Mycroft understands that those who do not remember the mistakes of the past are condemned to repeat them. He gathers Sherlock a little closer, shuts his eyes, and finally takes his own onwards journey into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the longest fic I've ever posted, and have greatly appreciated all the feedback and encouragement along the way. My overall strategy for moving forward on this has been to always have a new chapter drafted before posting the previous one. However, in the past couple of months I haven't been able to write anything new on this at all (not for want of trying), and due to recent life/health issues I don't know whether I'll be writing much in the near future. So I'm calling this 'complete' for now, and I hope you can at least find some kind of thematic closure in this chapter. I do reserve the right to reopen it as a WIP if I ever feel ready to pick it up again :)
> 
> Thank you for very much for your understanding - and for reading all those words about Sherlock and Mycroft <3


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